The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(109)

Not illusion this time. True magic. Magic that Arthur hadn’t called.

Magic that called to him.

Mab’s eyes blazed a triumphant red. The collar was just inches from his throat. Rand loomed behind his mistress. He’d flung Cybele’s battered body face down over his shoulder. She swayed slightly. He steadied her weight with his palm on her arse.

That hand tipped the scales. That big hand with its fingers spread wide over Cybele’s buttocks, squeezing, kneading. The sight flipped a mental trigger in the darkest part of Arthur’s consciousness. Hatred—raw, scorching, elemental fury—boiled forth. It spilled through his chest. Invaded his limbs. Flooded his brain.

A high, piercing tone filled his ears. Mab’s hellfire restraints snapped like twigs. Arthur leapt to his feet, roaring like a beast. He flung his left hand up, swatting the collar out of Mab’s hands. The force of his blow knocked her to the ground.

A word Arthur had never heard before—guttural, unimaginable sounds—erupted from his throat. The syllables reverberated like a gong struck by a god’s hand. Merlin’s staff vibrated. The rubble weighing it down shook, then simply disintegrated. Its crystal touchstone exploded in brilliant waves of hellfire.

The relic rose from the ruins of T?’r Cythraul. It hovered in the air, spinning and spitting white fire. A second word—as unknown and unbidden as the first—left Arthur’s lips. The staff shot like an arrow toward its master. It slapped into Arthur’s open palm. As his fingers closed on the twisted wood, a nimbus of brilliant power enveloped his body.

He caught one clear glimpse of Mab’s terrified face through the chaos of his magic.

Then his vision went white and he knew no more.





TWENTY-SEVEN


Cybele woke to a pounding temple and a stabbing agony in her lower left leg. Her ribs hurt like a bitch, too. Must be a few cracked bones in there.

She was fiercely glad.

Glad, because pain meant she was alive. Not dead and gone, lost forever in the gaping black abyss of Oblivion.

A chill invaded her body. She’d looked into the heart of that endless void. The velvet nothingness had wanted her. And she had wanted it. Only the thought of Arthur—still alive, still fighting—had given her the strength to resist. Every ounce of her life force, every spark of her magic, had gone into the battle for survival. And since she was now lying on hard ground, her body hurting like a sonofabitch, she must’ve won.

She was awake, but she hadn’t quite gotten up the courage to open her eyes. What was she going to see when she did? She’d survived the collapse of T?’r Cythraul. She’d resisted the uncanny lure of Oblivion. But had Arthur won his battle with Mab?

How much time had passed? Her mouth felt like cotton. She tried to swallow and almost gagged. She moved her hands over the surface under her. Damp grass. She couldn’t bend her left knee. Her leg was in a splint. Broken? That would explain why it hurt so damn much.

She wasn’t alone. Someone nearby was breathing roughly but steadily. Asleep, maybe. Who?

Steeling herself for the worst, she opened her eyes.

The ruins of T?’r Cythraul rose before her. The top half of the front facade had fallen, leaving the interior of the upper floors exposed. The floors, having lost support on the front end, sloped sharply downward. A jumble of furnishings lay broken atop a pile of stone rubble.

Arthur was sprawled beside her, lost in fitful slumber, his back half-supported by the garden wall. Cybele’s gaze flew to his neck.

Bare.

Her breath vacated her lungs in one long swoosh. The rush of relief was so intense, so exuberant, she couldn’t immediately catch her next inhale. When she finally did, she sucked in a lungful of musty air and dissolved into a fit of coughing. And shit, how that hurt her head and ribs. She stifled a moan.

Arthur jerked upright, his head turning sharply in her direction. Their eyes met. For several long moments, they just stared at each other.

“You’re awake,” he said finally. The relief in his voice was palpable.

“Yes.”

“How do you feel?”

How did he feel? She looked him over. He sported an assortment of scrapes and bruises, but it didn’t look like anything was seriously wrong with him. Except his eyes...they were red-rimmed, as if he’d been crying. For her? She struggled to sit upright, only to freeze when fresh pain stabbed her ribs.

“How do I feel?” she said through gritted teeth. “Like shit.”

He moved to help her sit up. “Here. Lean against me.”

She did, gratefully. “Dang it. I think I might I’d hurt less if a truck ran me over.”

“Can’t be that bad if you’re bitching about it.” The lightness of his words belied the seriousness of his tone. He ran a hand down her arm, as if trying to convince himself she was whole.

“I guess I’ll live.”

A beat of silence ensued. Then he said, “I didn’t think you would.”

She twisted to look at him, ignoring the pain the movement brought. “What happened after the house fell on me?”

Arthur grimaced. “I’m not exactly sure. Luc said—”

“He’s okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Zephyr? Auster? The other dormants?”

“They’re fine,” he said. “Clay, Draven, and Blade are okay, and helping out. They’re on the moor building a temporary shelter.”