Page 39 of Enslaved

Impressions. Feelings. They flit across my awareness, there and gone again. Waves slapping in my face. Wings sweeping overhead. Cold air freezing my already frozen skin. Strong arms wrap around me and a voice whispers: “Hold on, hold on. Hold on, Darling.”

I close my eyes again, let myself sink. Sink as fast as stone, down, down, down into darkness deeper even than the ocean. There I see flashes of strange, nebula-like creatures, even greater and more brilliant than those I’d glimpsed in the trench. I drift among them, wafted by their trailing tentacles and rippling fins, bathing in their strange light. It’s beautiful down here in these depths. I could stay here . . . I could stay . . . I could . . .

“Darling! Breathe! Breathe, gods damn it!”

Pain jolting through my body, pressure on my chest. My eyes flare wide. I stare up into a darkly silhouetted face framed by a too-bright, cloud-churning sky. My lungs heave; water gushes forth. Some power outside my body rolls me onto my side until I cough up every salty mouthful. Then, with a horrible ripping sensation, I drag air into my lungs.

“That’s good. That’s better.” The Prince’s voice beats like a drum against my senses. I cling to that sound with all the strength remaining to my spirit. His arms are around me, pulling me close to him, his hands massaging my skin. “Gods damn me for a fool,” he snarls. “I should never have let you make that swim.”

I rest my head against his shoulder. Darkness and warmth reach out to envelop me. I drift into them, even as the Prince roars, “No, stay with me! Don’t go away. I need you with me. I need you here. I need you. I need you, do you hear me?”

When I come to again, I’m lying on the ground once more. I blink, just able to discern the hazy image of the Prince crouched over me. A lazy, far-off awareness notices that he isn’t wet through like I am—his own spell must have worked better than mine. I drift out again only to come back to the sound of ripping fabric. “I’m sorry,” the Prince’s voice growls, a low rumble in my gut. “You’ll have to forgo your modesty this once.”

He claps his hands together, rubs them fast. The next moment, both his palms press against my flesh. Warmth cuts through my frozen core all the way to the solid block of ice encasing my heart. The ice cracks. My heart, which had slowed to almost nothing, begins to beat a little faster. It hurts. Oh, how it hurts! A moan trembles on my lips.

He grimaces. His hands move, smoothing up to my throat then down across my bare shoulders and arms before returning to my chest once more. Never once does he take them from my skin but pours his fae magic straight through his palms into my body. I feel it spreading, warmth and life and pain. Down my sternum, across my breasts to my stomach, my hips, my legs, my feet, back up to my head and neck once more. He grips my hands in his, massaging the icicles that are my fingers then returns to my heart. Always back to my heart.

Slowly, slowly, my awareness rises to the surface. I moan again. And suddenly I feel something more than the warmth of returning life. A spark. A streak of electricity which dances across my flesh. It shocks me to full wakefulness at last. I stare up at the Prince’s face, hovering just over mine. He’s intent upon his work, his brow sterner than I’ve ever seen it. And that single, blighted lock of hair falls across his forehead.

I try to move my hand. Nothing happens. I close my eyes, draw a breath. Try again. This time, my body obeys me. I lift my arm, stretch out my hand. Tuck that strand of hair behind his ear.

His gaze flashes to mine. “Clara!” he gasps.

Then he’s cupping my cheeks, touching my neck, smoothing damp hair back from my face. His jaw moves as he struggles to draw breath, to form words. “Clara! Are you there? Are you with me?” His palms slide down my neck back to my heart again, pressing more of his magicked heat into me. “If you can hear me, blink,” he says, staring into my eyes with terrible urgency.

I let my eyelids drop. Then, realize that isn’t enough to constitute a blink, I force them back up again.

“Gods be praised!” He strokes my cheek gently, almost reverently. Is that sea water on his cheek? It must be, for the droplet that falls upon my lips tastes of salt. His eyes glisten, possibly from the exertion of his magic. “Don’t try to speak,” he says when he sees my mouth starting to move. “It’s best if you lie still, let me do what I must.”

I would nod, but it’s too difficult. Instead I simply close my eyes, lean into the sensation of his touch. I won’t think about how humiliating this will all seem later on. I let myself experience it fully: the warmth, the magic, the heat. The delicacy of his fingers, the strength of his palms. His hands are trembling now where before they had been steady and firm. I wonder why but haven’t the strength to ask.

In the end, darkness rises to claim me once more. This time, it is merely the darkness of sleep, not oblivion. I let myself sink into it, even as the Prince draws me into his arms, presses me to his chest. “Sleep now, Clara,” he whispers into my hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, and I won’t let you go.”

Then in a low, ferocious growl: “I swear by the seven gods, I won’t let her go.”

I hold her close, pressed against my breast. Her body is so small and frail, a precious vessel formed of clay, too fragile for the battering shocks of this world. Yet it contains the spirit of a warrior. There’s life in her yet. Faint, but clinging with all that ferocious tenacity I’ve come both to dread and admire in her.

And I, meanwhile, feel my very heart being ripped in two.

I’ve got to get her out of this cold. The magic I’ve worked into her body is but a fae glamour. It will not serve to warm her, not truly. Not enough to revive her frozen blood. She needs a real fire, real heat.

I cast about desperately. Icy rain has soaked her discarded garments, but my own thick coat is dry enough. I wrap it around her naked flesh. She almost disappears inside of it. That I don’t like. I prefer to feel her against me, to know she is yet living.

Gathering her in my arms, I stand and peer through the rain. The lighthouse. It isn’t far. And it’s the only possible shelter anywhere on the whole damned island.

“To me!” I bark, and the wyvern immediately crawls close and bows its head. I climb onto its back, careful not to jostle the girl unnecessarily. “Go,” I command.

The wyvern springs to the air and glides along the shoreline and cliffs until it reaches the lighthouse. There it circles once, twice, before alighting gracefully on the rain-soaked ground. I slip from its back, adjusting my hold so that her head lolls from my shoulder. It falls back, her hair hanging over my arm, her white neck exposed. Silvery droplets of rain bead her skin, run between her breasts, pool in the hollow of her throat. I want to stare at her, to memorize the lines of her face and form. To know every part of her and, in the knowing, to bind her to me.

Growling fiercely, I stagger forward. The door at the base of the lighthouse tower is locked fast, just as I had left it the last time I was here. How many centuries ago was that now? I hardly care to remember. With a single kick, I burst through and step into the small dark space. A relieved smile breaks across my face. I can sense it—the enchantment in the air. Which means . . . yes! There is still fuel for the fire, still supplies in the sparse cupboards. Nothing grand, nothing luxurious. But enough perhaps to serve my immediate needs.

I lay her down before the hearth, still wrapped in my coat. My hands shake more than I like as I set about getting a fire going. A simple spell could spark it to life—but any fae blaze I might make would not provide what she needs. No, I would have to use human magic to generate true, healing warmth, and that I dare not use. Not now, not with my senses addled. I’m too likely to overreach, to cause myself lasting harm. She needs me well and whole. To help her. To save her.

So I gather flint from the box on the mantel. It takes a few tries, but the spark takes at last. Flames creep through the tinder and up dry old logs on the grate. I feed them, coax them. Only when I am certain the blaze is true do I turn to gather musty fur rugs and blankets from an alcove in the corner. These I mound close to the hearth.

Then I turn to her again. Lift her gently onto this makeshift bed. Is she still breathing? In the few minutes since I dared release my hold on her, did her soul slip away? No—I hear her delicate inhale and exhale. Faint but true. Her skin is like ice though. Wrapped in my coat, she cannot receive the full benefit of the flames.

Delicately, as though handling a porcelain doll, I ease her out of the heavy garment until she rests naked in my arms once more. Then, not stopping to think about what I do, not stopping to doubt or to question, I strip off my own damp shirt. Pull her against me. Rest her head against my shoulder, her back against my chest. Wrap my arms around her. Holding her, rocking her, as the fire grows and crackles on the grate. If I could, I would let all the warmth and life in me flow into her. As it is, I give all I can; no magic, no glamours. Just my own body heat and my urgent, defiant will.

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