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Those dragon eyes roved my face a moment too long, enough to stretch the tension between us before he stepped through the doorway first.
“Take my hand. The stairs spiral downward, and they’re steep.”
I took the hand he stretched out to me in the dark, and then he whispered, “Etheline.”
A ball of orange fire appeared in his other palm, the buzz of his magick sparking in the air. Being so close to him as he used his magick made my lips tingle. I licked my lips, wanting to taste his magick. It was so powerful I could feel it pressing against my chest as if it wanted to reach through my skin and latch onto my bones.
I yearned to have magick of that kind of my own. I did have a gift of the gods, the one that had replaced my healing magick,but I could never do something so extraordinary as breathe feyfire into the air with a whisper of a word in the dark.
I marveled that he could carry feyfire in his hand like it was nothing. He held it in front of him, lighting our passage as we stepped carefully down the stairwell till we reached the bottom.
“Nihilin,” he whispered, and the flame in his palm snuffed out.
He pulled me out into the moonlight, still holding my hand. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, only that I didn’t want to disrupt the peace we’d struck between us.
“In one of my books, I read that feyfire has different temperatures and different effects.”
He stared ahead, leading me through the garden, which was really more a grove of trees with twisted roots, dangling orange flowers, and a deeper orange fruit. Maragords. A sweet treasure. They grew in Hellamir as well, but that was as far south as the trees would take root. It wasn’t the climate but something about the soil here that helped them grow better. We had the fruit imported into Issos each fall with their harvest. I suppose I wouldn’t need to import the fruit now.
“It seems you finally read something in your books that was correct.” His admonishment was light, almost teasing.
Heat flushed my cheeks. I kept my attention on the path through the grove toward Drakmir’s humped back above the trees.
“Using feyfire is somewhat of an artform,” he added softly.
“How do you mean?” I turned to him, curious.
He walked with his hands at his back, his posture straight, the moonlight gilding his black horns in silver, winking off of the golden jewelry.
“The novice user, or I should say the ones who are given a modicum of the gift of this magick, can only create natural flames that burn hot. But those who are gifted with exceptionalabilities wielding feyfire can create flames that feel like no more than a whisper of wind against your skin. They can make the flames dance at will.”
His voice was melodic and sonorous. I’d not yet heard him sound this way—at ease and almost tender.
“I presume you have such a power.” I watched as Drakmir lifted his head from where he rested, noting our approach.
“I do.”
Stopping, I turned to Goll. “Show me.”
The watchful hunter had returned, the intensity of his gaze tapping on my senses. Still, I did not look away. I did not squirm but held his attention with poise.
Goll held out his palm between us and whispered a few words. A red flame filled his hand, flickering this way and that.
“Hold your hand out, face down.”
“No,” I instinctively snapped.
He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that coiled tight in my belly. “Don’t be afraid, Una.”
Heaving a sigh, I held out my hand above his, palm down. He whispered another command in demon tongue. The red flame tripled in size, licking and swaying unnaturally until it reached my hand.
I gasped, ready to snatch my hand away, but all I felt was a light brush tickling my skin, like a feather twirling on the underside of my palm.
I laughed. “It is like its dancing.” I watched the red flame tease along my fingers then wrap entirely around my hand with a gentle squeeze.
I inhaled at the pressure and the slight heat. Then he closed his fist and the flame disappeared.
“So you determine its temperature?”
