Kiss of Light

by Eve Langlais

“I want to try.”

  “Very well.” He stopped the flow of magic and startled a scream from her as they plummeted. He cushioned their descent and laughed as she clutched him tightly.

  “That wasn’t funny,” she snapped.

  “It is nice to see that you are not always indomitable.”

  “Just because I don’t often show fear doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.” Her gaze met his.

  “Fear is normal. Letting it control your actions, though, is cowardice.”

  Her eyes flashed as she caught the innuendo. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “No. But you are frightened by us.”

  “Can we have this conversation when we’re not dangling midair?” she huffed.

  “So long as we have it. Your turn to propel while I hold us steady.”

  She closed her eyes despite it not being necessary. He could feel her concentrating. Too hard. He reached through the tie that bound them.

  Like this.

  He showed her how to open herself to the magic so that it poured in. Then how to push it.

  She inhaled, then stuttered before smoothing the flow again. Gently, so gently at first it was barely noticeable, she expelled some.

  “More,” he said.

  They jolted upward, and this time, she exclaimed in delight. Her eyes opened, and her gaze met his. Her lips curved into a smile. The temptation had him leaning closer, enough that he managed a small brush of his mouth against hers. She gasped, and their ascent abruptly halted. He took over for her. Pleased with the fact that she’d not drawn away from the kiss.

  Rather her heart raced faster, vibrating the link between them.

  Her lips remained parted.

  And Titus awaited them at the top, a sour look on his face.

  “Your presence is becoming most tedious,” Desmond grumbled as they alighted.

  “It’s known as cock-blocking. Welcome to my world.” Titus offered a tight smile before turning to Erela. “You are glowing like you just supercharged your inner battery.”

  “I am?” She peeked at herself as if she could see it.

  Desmond could, the brilliant nimbus a temptation. Apparently, the vampire could perceive it, as well. But Erela…

  Her lips turned down. “I still don’t see it.”

  “Yet you managed to use it,” he prompted. “With training, you’ll discover the limits of it.”

  “And who will train me on Earth?” Her placid mask dropped over her face and she sauntered past him to the balcony door.

  You’re not going back to Earth. Not said aloud, but it was more than a statement. He knew she wouldn’t return. She just hadn’t admitted it yet.

  True to her word, Erela didn’t knock.

  Didn’t have to. Their host already knew they were there, and when she kicked open the door, the tip of a sword greeted her.

  Desmond drawled, “That’s not a very nice welcome.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Halt, or I’ll skewer you.”

  Doubtful given the shaking of his hand.

  Erela eyed the male standing with his sword outstretched. The blade burned with orange fire. Much more impressive than the Ifrit himself.

  He possessed the height of his kind, as tall as Desmond at least, but was half the weight, leaving him lanky. The crown of his head shone, shorn bare of hair unlike his chin with its strip of gray fuzz.

  Dark pantaloons billowed from a tight waist. His plain tunic ended at his belt. Under, a bare chest that should have worn a shirt. The scowl on his lips might have been more impressive if he didn’t tremble.

  The male with the wavering sword barked, “How dare you enter?” The statement at odds with the fear in his gaze. And what of the bead of sweat rolling from his temple?

  Erela took a step forward and found it amusing to watch him take one back.

  “Hello, Mustafa.” Desmond spoke smoothly, his hands down by his sides, empty. Unarmed. Giving the appearance of being benign. However, assuming he was harmless would have been a foolish mistake to make, given the magic he wielded.

  “Lord Desmond.” Mustafa’s gaze bounced between them. “I wasn’t expecting a visit.”

  Desmond smiled. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

  Erela had yet to say a word, preferring to watch as Mustafa darted anxious peeks at her. The man appeared so very, very nervous.

  And that voice. High-pitched. Higher than Erela recalled. Was it him?

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  “It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.”

  “Your father is well?” Mustafa asked, the tip of his sword never wavering.

  The inquiry brought a hint of mischief to Desmond’s lips. “He’s alive. Sitting in a cell at the moment. Awaiting his fate.” A nonchalant toss of words.

  “What?” Mustafa stuttered.

  The Dark Lord grinned, the slow, wide smile of a predator at play. “Seems my father was involved in a plot against my fiancée.”

  “I didn’t know you were engaged,” said faintly by Mustafa.

  “No one did because we were waiting for the right moment to announce it. Alas, my family did not approve of the match and foolishly sought to stop it.” Desmond’s face turned granite, his expression cold. “Mammon is dead, and my father imprisoned while I decide whether he should join my brother.”

  The admission stunned.

  He imprisoned his own father for me. And now talked about executing him for his actions against her.

  The thought warmed Erela more than it should have. It also made sense of something she’d overheard in Desmond’s castle. The maids assigned to help her whispered, but not quietly enough. “Is it true Lord Desmond rebelled against his father as a bridal gift for her?”

  Why didn’t he tell her?

  Would it have mattered?

  She didn’t know. But the fact that he didn’t lay it at her feet as a present on the altar of forgiveness raised Desmond in her esteem.

  “I see you’ve brought a guest with you.” Mustafa glanced at her, the fear sharp.

  Was it him? The voice was too breathy and trembling with fear. Yet within it hovered a ghost of remembrance. Titus drifted into the room, the misty molecules of his being like fine motes of dust that quietly coalesced behind Mustafa.

  Erela stared at Mustafa and said bravely, “Have we met before?”

  No mistaking the widening of his eyes. “Nope. Never. I rarely leave my tower.” The sword—still pointed at them—shook.

  Desmond tucked his hands behind his back before striding farther into the room. “See, it’s interesting you mention that because I have it on good authority that you do leave this tower. Quite often, actually.” Desmond dropped into an overly large chair, making himself comfortable. Lord of the tower, a cold smile for the true owner.

  “If you are here to make accusations, then take your leave. I have no interest in answering. My friendship lies with your father. Begone.” Mustafa rallied as he pointed with the blade at the open archway to the balcony.

  “Not before you answer my questions.” Desmond remained nonchalant.

  Mustafa’s gaze darted to Erela, and he swallowed noticeably. “I have nothing to say.”

  “I would think at the very least you owe Erela an apology.”

  “I don’t know this woman.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you should look closer. I’m sure she looks different without the bruises marring her complexion.”

  If she’d wondered at Mustafa’s guilt, it hardened into certainty at the way he blubbered, “I had no choice. She made me.”

  He is one of the guilty.

  The realization filled her with a righteous fury. A cold breeze whipped through the room, lifting the strands of her hair, and drew the Ifrit’s attention.

  “She made you? Who is she? Tell me the name.” Erela’s voice didn’t shake at all as she asked. Surprising given the tremors within.

  However, the act of demanding steadied Mustafa. He kept the swo
rd pointed, and the flames on it shone brighter. “Don’t think you can command me. You are Forsaken. Forbidden to seek aid. Banished from these lands. Depart my home at once.”

  “Or what?” Desmond asked, all too calmly, but Erela could feel his rage through their shared link, and it warmed her heart. It just didn’t take away the chill running through her veins. “What will you do, Mustafa? What could you possibly do that is worse than your crimes already? You conspired with my brother and father. Tortured my intended. Hid her from me.” Desmond’s voice lowered to a growl, and a dark nimbus surrounded him.

  A coward at heart, Mustafa blubbered, “It wasn’t my idea. She told me what to do. Didn’t give me a choice.”

  “You could have said no.” Erela’s soft reply.

  “You can’t kill me. The King of Ha’el—”

  “Isn’t here right now,” Desmond interrupted. “I am. And unfortunately for you, I don’t give a damn what the king prefers. I also don’t give a damn about you. Why, I could slice off your arm right now and not feel a thing.” The expression and tone remained icy.

  Erela shivered. In delight. There was something about Desmond’s controlled rage that soothed her own anger.

  The tip of the sword dipped, and the flames dimmed. “I had no choice,” Mustafa repeated. “She made me. She makes us all do her bidding.”

  “Made you?” Desmond’s lip curled. “You are a member of the tribunal.”

  “No, I’m not—”

  “Don’t lie!” Desmond roared, bounding from the chair, his rage expressing itself in a nimbus of shadow that encircled his body, not formed of smoke or anything so tangible, but rather the absence of light itself. “I know you wear the robe. Just like I know you cast your vote to forsake Erela. You took part in her torture.”

  “I healed her!” Mustafa tried to defend his actions.

  “You healed me so I could be hurt over and over again,” she hissed. “Monster.”

  Desmond stood in front of Mustafa, who trembled and said quietly, “How dare you use your position and power in a way that disrespects our kind. We might live in Ha’el with demons, but we are not monsters.”

  “He is,” Erela stated, keeping Mustafa’s gaze on her so he didn’t see the slinking approach of Titus. “He listened to me beg. Heard me cry. Didn’t care at all.” She knew each word stabbed at Desmond, could see it in the way the dark cloud around him deepened, licking at the edges of him.

  Mustafa could see it too and licked his lips, his fear a palpable thing. “I was the one who kept her alive.”

  “But I wanted to die,” she spat. “You wouldn’t let me.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “You had many choices,” Desmond said flatly. “You could have freed her. Or chosen to vote to save her.”

  “It was almost unanimous.” Mustafa thought to justify his actions.

  Desmond would have none of it and growled, “It was wrong.”

  “How many votes against?” Erela asked, drawing closer. When Mustafa would have retreated, he ran into Titus, who clamped hands on the Ifrit’s arms, holding him for Erela to approach.

  Mustafa struggled.

  Titus placed his mouth on Mustafa’s neck and muttered, “Go ahead. It was a long ride, and I could use a snack.”

  “A vampire and a Forsaken brought against the rules. Attacking me in my home. She will find out. You will regret this,” Mustafa threatened.

  “You’ll regret your mother fucking your father in a moment if you don’t answer Erela! How many votes?” Desmond stood at Erela’s back, an inferno of rage to the cold running through her.

  Finally face-to-face with one of those who’d had a hand in her past, she’d wondered how she would feel in this moment. She expected anger, fear, perhaps relief at finally putting a face to her enemy.

  What she didn’t expect was to feel nothing.

  Mustafa was but a piece in a game where the main player still remained hidden. She believed him when he said that he followed orders. He wasn’t the type to make any decisions on his own.

  He was also a coward. He slumped in Titus’s grasp. “There were five votes against.”

  “Eight tribunal members agreed.” The disgust was evident in Desmond’s tone.

  “Actually, seven. The thirteenth member hasn’t attended in centuries.”

  “So, seven to five. Your vote would have made a difference.”

  Of a sudden, Mustafa found his courage, and his body straightened. “You have no right to interfere or question tribunal matters. I will be reporting your behavior as well as your continued association with the Forsaken.”

  “That would imply you’ll live to see another day.” Desmond’s face hardened.

  “If you kill me—”

  “Not if. I will kill you. The question is if it will be slow and painful, or quick?”

  Erela tapped her chin, pretending thought. “I vote slow. I’d like to heal him in between, too. But only when he begs for it.”

  She could see the shock in Titus’s gaze at her words. “Adara…”

  Surely, he didn’t think she could let this Ifrit live.

  “If you can’t handle what must happen, then leave,” she stated. “You knew why I came here.”

  “You came for answers. And got some.”

  “But not all the answers,” Desmond retorted. “Such as who gave Mustafa his orders.”

  “He won’t say,” Erela stated with certainty. “Not without pain to loosen his tongue.”

  “No amount of torture will make me reveal it.” Mustafa’s voice held a note of defiance.

  “You fear the one behind this more than me,” she mused aloud. “A foolish choice.”

  She advanced on Mustafa only to halt at the sharp barking from outside. Desmond cast her a glance before striding to the balcony. He leaned over and cursed. “Dust storm.”

  “And?” she said. “We are safe inside.” Only to remember that Logan wasn’t. “Logan and the horses need shelter.”

  “I know.” He glanced down then back at her, his expression torn.

  “I can handle this.”

  Desmond looked past her to Titus. “Will you let Erela do what must be done?”

  “Are you asking if I’ll hold the bastard while she slits his throat?”

  “Yes.”

  A look was exchanged between them that must have satisfied because Desmond nodded. “I’ll return when it’s safe.”

  Because a dust storm was nothing to scoff at. Erela remembered the stories of them, winds whipping strong enough to flay flesh from bone. Ha’el wasn’t a gentle place, which made the fact that the Ifrits lived here all the more odd. Why hadn’t they relocated?

  With a last dark look for her, Desmond jumped off the edge of the balcony, leaving her alone. Showing he trusted she could handle Mustafa.

  Can I? Could she truly torture someone for answers?

  Turning to look at the Ifrit, who appeared smug now that Desmond was gone, Erela hardened her resolve.

  I can and will make him talk. Then, she’d kill him. Quickly, though. I am not a monster.

  She tucked her hands behind her lest he see the fine tremor in them. “You keep saying you had no choice. Who told you how to vote? Was it an Ifrit?”

  “None know I sit on the tribunal.”

  “Well, someone must if they told you what to do. Was it someone on the council itself?”

  “Yes. But I can’t tell you who. The identities are secret.”

  Erela cocked her head. “If it’s secret, then why fear her? She wouldn’t know who you are.”

  “She knows. She always knows.” Mustafa’s lips flattened. “You should leave now while you have a chance.”

  “Leave and go where?”

  “Somewhere you can be forgotten.”

  “I tried that. But whoever wants me dead just wouldn’t leave me alone.” She didn’t mention the nightmares that kept plaguing her.

  The wind whistled outside, dusting through the open doors, stinging skin
.

  “We should close those,” Titus said.

  She waved a hand. “Go ahead. Our host won’t be going anywhere.” If he ran, Erela would chase.

  Titus moved to shut the doors against the increasing storm, and she leaned close to Mustafa and whispered, “Who voted against me?”

  “No idea.”

  She grabbed him by the neck and dug in her nails, all the better to hold him as she brought his face down to meet her knee.

  “Aaah,” Mustafa screamed.

  She didn’t care as she yelled, “Who? I want their names.”

  “I should have let you die, ungrateful whore.”

  Slam. She felt bone crunch as her knee connected with his nose.

  Mustafa wailed, and his arms flailed. She felt the stream of magic as the Ifrit drew it to him. It proved oddly easy to block the flow and draw it into herself instead.

  Titus returned, frowning, yet his expression was also feral with excitement. “Would you like me to take a turn?”

  “I’ve—”

  Something banged on the closed door. Hard enough that she turned her head to peek. The solid portals had no window to show them what knocked. Bang. Bang. Each solid blow shook the door in its frame.

  Was it Desmond returning? She tugged at her link to him and frowned when it showed him farther away than the door.

  If not him, then who, or what?

  The next bang hit with enough force that the wood splintered. Another firm shot was all it took to thrust open the door. Wind whipped in, full of dust particles, and Erela squinted against it. The fine grit stung, and she kept her lips sealed. She found her sword in hand, having unconsciously pulled it.

  A dark form slinked into the room, undaunted by the gale-force winds and scouring dirt. Leathery skin covered it from snout to tail. Its wings were perforated, making her wonder how it flew.

  Didn’t matter the how, it was here, and it flicked a forked tongue as it advanced.

  “What is that?” Titus danced to the left of it and jabbed with a dagger, only to have it bounce off. The hide of the beast was tough.

  “I don’t know.” Her own lunge at the creature resulted in her blade scraping off its hide without damage.

  Titus darted in again, dull strikes. A wing drew tight and then swept to strike the vampire, launching him through the air.