The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(104)

In what seemed like a very long time after the last jolts of pleasure waned, he loosened his hold on her hips. Her feet slid to the floor. “Don’t let go,” she said. “Or I’ll melt into a puddle on the floor.”

“Can’t have that.” He turned, leaning his back against the wall and pulled her in close, her back to his front.

“See?” she turned her head where it rested on his shoulder and looked up at him. “You didn’t lose control. Your magic didn’t kill me. You were worried for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” he said, his embrace tightening. It’d been a near thing, but he’d come away stronger for it. He hadn’t let Cybele fall. He was confident now that he never would. She wasn’t his weakness. She was his strength. His true guide.

She sighed and turned in his arms. “That was incredible, Arthur.”

He smiled. “Give me a couple minutes and I’ll do it one better.”

She grinned back at him. They did it three more times—on the rug before the hearth, on the wide desk, and after a trip to the kitchen to eat the sandwiches they’d abandoned earlier, in a wide, comfortable armchair.

After that last time, Cybele fell asleep in his arms. It was only as her breathing slowed and deepened that he realized they hadn’t used a single condom all night. Shit. He dropped his head against the chair’s high back. He just...he just couldn’t think about that now. He’d think of it later. If there was a later.

He stared at nothing, brooding over the upcoming duel, crafting and discarding strategies. There was really, he thought, no way to plan. Not against Mab.

He should’ve slept. He hadn’t. Sleep was too much like Oblivion.

Outside, the wind whipped up. It howled over the moors, wailing like the brokenhearted. The shrubs outside the library windows, years overdue for a trim, scratched against the glass. Cybele shivered. He rubbed her arms. The howl outside the window changed in pitch and tenor, deepening to a low, rushing roar.

Abruptly, Arthur realized the sound wasn’t wind. Or at least not a natural one. His arms tightened. “Wake up,” he whispered urgently. “Get dressed. Quickly. I think they’re here.”

“Who’s here?” She lifted her head off his shoulder, blinking groggily. As sleep receded, her eyes widened and her body tensed. “Oh.” She swallowed visibly. “So soon.”

He slid her off his lap. Her arms clung for a heartbeat then fell away. They pulled on their clothes in haste. Leaving the sanctuary of the library, he traversed the hallway and approached the front door. He paused for the space of a deep breath, gathering courage.

“Wait.”

Cybele stood at the end of the passage near the door to the kitchen.

“What?” he asked.

“You need to throw her off balance,” she said, ducking out of view. She reappeared a moment later, carrying Merlin’s staff. “This should give her something to think about.”

“For all of three seconds,” Arthur muttered, taking it from her. “Until she realizes it’s useless.”

“Maybe we can trick her into thinking it’s alive,” she said. “Come on.”

She moved past him and opened the front door. The wind was so strong it nearly snatched the oak slab from her hand. She held firm to the brass knob as he came up behind her, his eyes searching the sky. Storm clouds roiled overhead. Dark shapes, only just visible against the turbulent gray, drew ever closer.

Rand landed on the moor beyond the garden’s low stone wall. His left arm encircled Zephyr, whose eyes were wide with fear. Cybele stiffened. Arthur grabbed her hand to keep her from bolting.

“Not now. You can’t do anything for her.”

Evander and Hunter touched down next, followed by Draven, Clayton, and Blade. The three male dormants—Auster, Finley, and Grayson—traveled with them.

“Luc.” Cybele’s voice was strained. “Where’s Luc?”

“There.”

Luc stumbled as he landed, going down hard on one knee before lurching to his feet. Arthur sucked in a breath as he took in his friend’s appearance. His face was black with bruising. A mass of blistering welts and bleeding whip marks crisscrossed his torso and limbs. He stared straight ahead with blank eyes.

“Damn that bitch,” Cybele said. “Damn her to Oblivion. Kill her, Arthur. Kill her for me. For my brother.”

“For all of us,” he said. If utter hatred were magic, Merlin’s staff would be ablaze. Mab would fall dead from the sky.

The dormants moved to one side. The adepts fanned out in a line. Mab touched down last. She took up a position in front of the seven Nephil males. A red nimbus of power crackled about her. She wore full dominatrix garb, black leather and vinyl, her enormous ruby nestled in the valley between her upthrust breasts. Her bejeweled whip handle dangled at her waist. Arthur’s lower lip curled at the glint of the stolen gems.

He let anger seep through him. His demon nature rose to meet it. His wings rose and his vision went red. He planted Merlin’s staff before him. If the sight of the long-lost relic dismayed his adversary, Arthur couldn’t detect it. Her wings swept downward. Her shoulders went back.

“Arthur Camulus.” Her cold voice rang out over the moor. “You will not stand against me. Surrender now and I will grant you your life.”