Jessica Andersen - Spellfire

Then it was gone. And the world went silent.

Suddenly aware that he had his arms wrapped around her when she could’ve shielded herself, he released her and backed off. “Sorry, I . . . holy crap.”

He went silent, stunned by the brilliant colors that suddenly surrounded them.

Myr drew in a breath, and then exhaled it on a soft, “Ohh.”

There was no sign of the fire, the smoke, Anntah, or the other spirits. But where those things were gone, there was something new, something that very definitely hadn’t been there before.

Butterflies.

Everywhere except for the fire pit, the ruined village was carpeted with the creatures—fiery red, sky blue, pale green, brilliant yellow, lacy white—making it look for a second like tens of thousands of flowers had blossomed in the space of a few minutes. Except these flowers had wings and they fluttered and pulsed, bringing the ghost town to life. And then, as if they’d gotten some silent signal, they rose up into the air and swirled like brightly colored confetti.

They danced and spun for a moment, and then began to settle again, many of them wafting toward Myrinne. They landed on her shoulders, in her hair, on her face, until she was dotted with living jewels.

Her eyes shone with wonder. “Look,” she said, even though he was already staring at her. She cupped her palms and they filled with butterflies. “Look at them all.”

“Fuck me,” Rabbit said. It wasn’t exactly poetry, but it was all he could manage as the beauty of the moment cut into him, painful in its intensity.

She was radiant, limned in color, and so very alive that it hurt like hell to know they were running out of time, and he didn’t have the answers he needed. More, he didn’t know what those answers would mean for the two of them. So he didn’t say anything, just cupped his own palms together, very aware that there were only two spots in the village that were bare of the insects: him and the fire pit.

After a moment, a big butterfly landed in his cupped palms. Its wings were streaked with red and orange like flames, its body matte black like his combat clothes, and though he didn’t know what that meant, it sure as hell felt like it meant something.

The creature fluttered up, deserting him, but a second later, a shiny green one lofted up from Myr’s shoulder to join it. The two hovered for a moment at eye level, then headed upward, twining together in an aerial dance that blurred green and red together. Others followed—blue, yellow, purple, pink—as if an entire field of wildflowers had suddenly taken flight. They churned up, swirled once around the ruined village, and then headed into the trees en masse, as if they had somewhere else to be.

Rabbit’s throat tightened at how fricking pretty it was, but also with an ache of frustration, this time not coming from the dark magic, but from him. Because moments like this—beautiful, magical—should be protected. And he wasn’t sure he knew how.

“Gods,” Myr whispered, her eyes locked on the last of the colorful flutters. “That was incredible.” The radiance still surrounded her, he realized. It wasn’t just the butterflies; it was magic.

“You summoned them,” he said, feeling a kick of holy shit inside him, because she sure as hell hadn’t inherited that power from him. This was something new, something he’d never heard of before.

“Maybe.” She hesitated, then nodded. “I think so. Not on purpose, but maybe deep down inside . . .”

“Tell me.” Talk to me.

Shadows crept into her eyes, but she said softly, “When I was maybe nine or ten, I found a book on one of the shelves. I don’t know why the Witch bought it—an accident, or maybe a special order someone had bailed on. Certainly wasn’t her style, with flowers and butterflies on the cover. And the magic inside was so different from hers, all about power flows and respecting the earth and all its creatures.” She paused. “Anyway, I used to wait until she was asleep at night, and I’d take the book off the shelf and sneak out to the little garden behind the tea shop, where I’d practice the incantations by candlelight. At first nothing happened, but then, one night, a butterfly came and sat near my candle. Then the next night, there were two of them, then more and more.” Her voice flattened abruptly. “I was up to a dozen when the Witch caught on.”

“She punished you.” One of Rabbit’s biggest regrets was that Iago had killed the bitch before he’d gotten to her.

“Worse. She used me. She snuck up behind me and netted the butterflies, then locked them in a cabinet so I couldn’t set them free. The next day, she pinned them down alive, dried them in the oven, and sold the powder to the owner of the bar next door, telling him it was an aphrodisiac.” Her voice was flat, her eyes hollow. “She made me call them again the next night, and the next. Every night for a week, until they stopped coming.”

Ah, baby. He hated what she’d been through. Hated even more that he didn’t know what to say.

“I tried to tell her I wouldn’t do it, and when that didn’t work, I tried to screw up the incantation. But she knew. Somehow, she knew, and she made me do it right. I’m not even sure how. I guess I was that afraid of her, that afraid of what would happen to me if it wasn’t for her.”

“You were a kid.”

“Even later, when I was old enough to run away, I didn’t. I just wasn’t ever strong enough to stand up to her.”

“You are now.” When she just shook her head and started to turn away, he caught her hand and drew her back toward him. “Hey, look around you. You just helped banish a dark-magic ghost. You could handle fifty of her.”

She started to argue, but then hesitated. “You think so?”

Something shifted in his chest. “I know so. You’re not just a mage now, Myr, you’re a warrior too. You were ready to bring me down if you didn’t like what was going on. Instead, you helped me nail Anntah. Hell, I bet you could’ve taken him on your own—you’re that strong now, Myr. Seriously.”

“That sounds like something I would’ve said to you, back in the day.”

And it wasn’t the kind of thing he’d ever really said to her before, which was his foul—one of many. He should’ve backed her up better, should have helped make her feel safer. Now, though, the best he could do was say, “I mean it. The Nightkeepers should consider themselves damn lucky to have you on their side . . . I know I do.”

Her eyes darkened. “You’ve got your own magic working now, both halves of it. You don’t need me anymore.”

He knew he should back off; she’d be safer away from him. Instead, he caught her other hand and leaned in, so she could see the intensity in his eyes when he said, “Fuck that. I need you.”

“Damn it, Rabbit,” the words were barely a whisper, but she didn’t pull away. And suddenly there was a crackle of new energy in the air.

“Tell me to back off and leave you the hell alone.” But then, before she could say anything, he closed the last little distance between them, and said against her lips, “Don’t. Please.”

And he kissed her. Because he’d gotten to where he couldn’t not kiss her. He needed her warmth and sass, needed the woman who could fry a demon one moment and call butterflies in the next. Most of all, he needed the heat that pounded between them, reminding him that he was alive, and that he wasn’t just fighting against his mother, grandfather and a whole shitload of other baddies, he was fighting for the good guys. For moments like this.

He kept his arms loose in case she wanted to break free, but had no real intention of letting her go. And after only a moment’s hesitation, she made a muffled noise of surrender, then twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back. And all he could think was, Thank fuck.