Page 103 of Of Flame and Fate

“Hank,” Celia states, not that she needs to say more.

“You heard her,” Hank commands. “Stand down.”

The vamps withdraw, giving Celia enough space to easily step through.

I race after her.

Okay. Maybe more like stumble and stagger after her, trying to avoid the multitude of skulls fading in and out at my feet.

Misha’s memory left me drained and disturbed. My energy isn’t anywhere near where I need it to be, making me vulnerable despite that vulnerable is the last thing I need to be.

Misha slumps to his knees at Celia’s approach. Like me, he’s exhausted, and struggling, and . . .inhuman.

“Celia,” I say, my eyes rounding. “I think his soul is gone.”

“No,” she says.

I try to grab her, but she slips from my grasp. “I’m serious,” I stammer. “I don’t feel it.”

“I do,” she answers quietly.

She lowers herself in front of him. I more or less flop, trying not to curse when my knee crashes against a rock buried beneath the soil.

If I’m being honest, I can’t exactly feel Misha’s soul. What I do feel is all the wrath and strength that comes with it. It’s different then, his entire form void of anything close to human.

I’m re-thinking allowing Celia to save the day and am pretty damn sure we’re about to die. “This isn’t a good idea,” I tell her. “He could hurt you. The vamps need to hold him or something.”

“No,” Celia replies, keeping her voice gentle. “I don’t want anyone to touch him.”

“Celia,” I beg.

Her hand snaps over my wrist when I try to inch forward. “Taran, I told you to stay put,” she reminds me.

She tilts her head, her compassion almost palpable as she takes in Misha’s beaten-down form. Very carefully, she releases my hand. “Misha, it’s Celia,” she tells him, her voice sweet, tranquil, and surprisingly absent of fear. “Can you hear me?”

Misha lifts his head. I almost sigh with relief until his seething stare latches onto Celia and his fangs lengthen.

Celia’s palm shoots out, keeping everyone in place, including me. “Don’t anyone move.”

Her command and the surety in her tone are the only reason I don’t erupt like a tornado of fire. Holy God, I’ll kill him if he harms her.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, barely breathing.

“He’s in pain,” she explains, watching him closely.

“Will he attack?” I manage.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” I glance between them. “Then why the hell are you kneeling this close to him?”

She bats her hands, trying to shush me. “Misha, it’s Celia,” she says again.

“I know who you are,” he responds, his voice unearthly.

“You should,” she says. “We’re friends.”

Her response makes him pause. “Icalledto you,” he says, continuing to watch her like he isn’t sure she’s really there.

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