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“And each cross of silver a shield will be. As we will, so mote it be.”
The room exploded with light, and the force of it shook the walls, the floor. The cauldron tumbled over, spilling liquid silver into the flame.
The force nearly sent Glenna to the ground, but Hoyt’s arms came around her. He spun his body around to shield hers from the sudden spurting flames and roaring wind.
Hoyt saw the door fly open. For an instant, Cian was framed in the doorway, drowned in that impossible light. Then he vanished.
“No! No!” Dragging Glenna with him, Hoyt broke the circle. The light shrank in on itself, swallowed itself and was gone with a crash like thunder. Through the ringing in his ears he thought he heard shouting.
Cian lay on the floor bleeding, his shirt half burned away and still smoking.
Hoyt dropped to his knees, his fingers reaching for a pulse before he remembered there would be none in any case. “My God, my God, what have I done?”
“He’s badly burned. Get the shirt off of him.” Glenna’s voice was cool as water, and just as calm. “Gently.”
“What happened? What the hell did you do?” King shoved Hoyt aside. “Son of a bitch. Cian. Jesus Christ.”
“We were finishing a spell. He opened the door. There was light. It was no one’s fault. Larkin,” Glenna continued, “help King carry Cian to his room. I’ll be right there. I have things that will help.”
“He’s not dead.” Hoyt said it quietly, staring down at his brother. “It’s not death.”
“It’s not death,” Glenna repeated. “I can help him. I’m a good healer. It’s one of my strengths.”
“I’ll help you.” Moira stepped up, then eased her body toward the wall as King and Larkin lifted Cian. “I have some skill.”
“Good. Go with them. I’ll get my things. Hoyt. I can help him.”
“What did we do?” Hoyt stared helplessly at his hands. Though they still vibrated from the spell, they felt empty and useless. “It was beyond all I’ve done.”
“We’ll talk about it later.” She gripped his hand, pulled him into the tower room.
The circle was burned into the floor, scorched in a pure white ring. In its center glinted nine silver crosses with a circle of red jasper at the joining.
“Nine. Three times three. We’ll think about all this later. I think we should let them stay there for now. I don’t know, let them set.”
Ignoring her, Hoyt crossed the circle, picked one up. “It’s cool.”
“Great. Good.” Her mind was already on Cian, and what would have to be done to help him. She grabbed her case. “I have to get down, do what I can for him. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, Hoyt.”
“Twice now. Twice I’ve nearly killed him.”
“This is my doing as much as yours. Are you coming with me?”
“No.”
She started to speak, then shook her head and rushed out.
In the lavish bedchamber, the vampyre lay still on the wide bed. His face was that of an angel. A wicked one, Moira thought. She sent the men out for warm water, for bandages, and mostly to get them out from underfoot.
Now she was alone with the vampyre, who lay on the wide bed. Still as death.
She would feel no heartbeat should she lay her hand on his chest. There would be no breath to fog a glass if she were to hold one to his lips. And he would have no reflection.
She’d read these things, and more.
Yet, he’d saved her life, and she owed him for that.
She moved to the side of the bed, and used what little magic she had to try to cool his burned flesh. Queasiness rose up and was fought down. She’d never seen flesh so scorched. How could anyone—anything—survive such wounds?
