Page 182 of The Edge of Darkness

They both nodded.

One thing was for sure: we would all be shit-faced by the end of the night. There was no way Remic was going to risk having to wear a dress to Lumeri. It would probably be the death of him. And that was saying a lot, because Dionachs didn’t die easily.

I glanced down at the spare drink that had been meant for Nivelle.

Why did she always scatter to the wind every time a window opened for conversation or confrontation? The thought frustrated me to no end. She was so . . . bitter.

Scanning the crowd, I found her with ease. Her pale yellow hair shone like gold in the torchlight as she twirled twin balls of green flame in her hands, mirroring the fae male who stood about twenty feet from her, drawing a crowd with his antics. He spun massive spheres of fire in the air like they weighed nothing. She did the same, copying his movements, but hers were much smaller, and her movements were far more discreet. She obviously didn’t want to garner any attention.

I watched her for a moment, wondering how her magic worked. Auren had told me it was called “emulation”—harnessing someone else’s ability and wielding it as her own. That was how she’d rendered me useless in Neveshir using that rope of lightning. My lightning. I hadn’t known it then, but it made perfect sense now.

But the thing about her that still vexed me had nothing to do with what her magic was capable of. It was how someone so small and seemingly harmless had such an effect on me. I’d faced enemies and monsters, creatures and corruption, in all forms and facets, and yet nothing—no one—got under my skin like she did.

I had nothing to prove to her, yet I found myself feeling like I did. It was a complex, jumbled mix of signals and feelings that I wasn’t sure how to handle. Hell, I didn’t even know how to decipher them, let alone act on any of them. And she was so gods-damned stubborn that I didn’t think I could make any progress even if I wanted to.

So, why was all of that so fucking enticing?

If there was a rope around my wrists, she had the other end and was simultaneously severing and reeling it back in. Her attitude should have pushed me away, but instead, it baited me. Because beneath the snippy remarks and lashings of her tongue, there were moments when her eyes held mine, and they screamed something entirely different.

I stood there, staring, watching her fumble over the flames she’d conjured, and fighting the urge to walk over to her and hand her the drink—if only to start a conversation, to slip my foot in the door again and see if she would actually tolerate a moment alone with me. For some reason, I needed that. As strange and unprecedented as it was, I couldn’t stop myself from being drawn to her.

Ever since we met in Neveshir, I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering to her. Her angst, her gall, her gray-blue eyes—the color of Vahrenhall’s skies . . .

And her body . . .

I suddenly felt like all my thoughts were on display for everyone to see.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Silas tracing my gaze across the field to Nivelle, but he didn’t say anything.

Shit. It hadn’t crossed my mind until now that not only was he Auren’s Dionach, but he was also Nivelle’s brother. Had he noticed how she acted around me, or how I acted around her? I didn’t think it was that obvious, but then again, Auren seemed to have picked up on it, so maybe I was the fool.

If he only knew the kind of thoughts I was having about his sister . . .

The music changed from an energetic tune to a slow lull that seemed to accentuate the silence between us. It made me nervous that if I didn’t redirect the awkwardness, all the effort I’d just made to get on more comfortable ground with Silas would be lost. But damn it, the only thing I could think of to talk about was his sister.

I shifted on my feet. Maybe the least suspicious thing to do was to bring up Nivelle. If I tried to dance around it, I’d probably only make it worse. And who better to know how she worked than her brother . . .

I jerked my chin in Nivelle’s direction. “Has she always been this difficult?” The moment the question left my tongue I inwardly winced.

Fuuuck. “Difficult” was not the word I wanted to use. I covered my embarrassment by gulping down what remained in my mug.

Silas, to my total surprise, grinned. “Difficult is an understatement.”

I nearly choked on my drink. I hadn’t expected him to wholeheartedly agree.

“She wasn’t always this way. It started after our mother died, and she became my wardeness by default because of the power she possesses. That, in itself, has never happened before, and I don’t think she liked it when Torin honed in on her. A lot changed when she took over our mother’s role of communing with the witch goddess. What she thought was a life of her own turned into bending the knee at someone else’s beckoning call. The bitterness . . .” He paused, almost as if it hurt to think about it. “I wish she would let it go and be herself again. But I understand why she does it. At least I think I do.”

“Why does she do it?”

“To keep from feeling like she’s losing control. I think it’s how she copes with stress and change. Fear seems to do that to some.”

“Judging by what I’ve seen, I thought she didn’t fear anything.”

“It’s not pain or death that she fears. It’s losing herself.”

I didn’t respond. I only watched Nivelle as she focused on her newfound craft. Something in my chest loosened, and my shoulders relaxed.

“Regardless of what it is, she doesn’t talk about it. Not even with me. But I think the longer she is here, the more she will unwind. Auren seems to have made some progress with her. I haven’t seen her laugh in . . . I couldn’t tell you the last time, actually. Until the other day.” He slowly swung his head back to me and flicked his eyes down at the additional mug in my hand. “She could probably use that drink.”