The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(29)

Maweth slumped on the floor beside him. “You’re crazy, Lucky. You had a chance to get away. You shoulda bailed.”

Lucky’s blue eyes snapped with indignation. “Without you? I would never!”

Maweth didn’t quite know how to reply to that. No one had ever really wanted to stay with him before. His boney chest ached strangely, and his vision went all blurry.

“Um...Maweth?” Lucky ventured.

“Huh?”

“What’d’ya think Dusek wanted my feathers for?”

“I have no idea,” Maweth said wearily. “But I guarantee you, Lucky—whatever it is, we are not going to like it.”





SEVEN


The stair creaked under Arthur’s weight. When he gained the uppermost landing, he paused. The door was slightly ajar. The light he’d seen from the garden flickered behind it. The rhythm of deep, even breathing reached his ears.

Cybele was asleep in his childhood bed. The thought was unbearably arousing. And unsettling. This collision of his past and present lives threatened to knock him even farther off balance than he already was.

He pushed the door open. She lay curled on her side, in a tangle of white sheets, one hand tucked under her chin. Her braid, unwound from her head, lay across the mattress like a thick yellow rope. His old blanket lay in a dusty heap on the floor. No doubt she’d kicked it there. Cybele wasn’t a restful sleeper. She wasn’t particularly restful when awake, either.

The room, set under steeply sloping rafters, was very warm. Heat radiated from a small wood-burning stove in one corner. A battered copper stock pot sat atop it. Dormer windows, five on either side, threw daylight into the space. Other than the woman in his bed and an extra layer of dust, the attic looked much as it had the day he’d left it.

Low shelves lined the north wall. Arthur’s father had built them to hold the books his son never seemed to be able to leave in the library. A desk and chair stood nearby, his old algebra textbook open atop it. A calculator, along with a lined sheet of paper bearing scribbled calculations, lay beside it. Arthur hadn’t attended the village school; his father had been his tutor. While Arthur had loved history and poetry, and hadn’t minded writing, he’d hated math. He could almost see his younger self seated at the desk, scowling at his miscalculations and wishing his father to Oblivion.

He winced at the memory. His boyhood innocence seemed criminal now. If only he’d known how idyllic his life was and how bitterly he’d mourn his father. A new wave of grief rose. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow it to break. The past, and all its associated grief, was as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. Like blood, spilling it would only make him weak.

He prowled to the edge of the bed, his eyes and his heart seeking Cybele. If not for her, his life in Demon’s Hollow would’ve been unendurable. When he sank into black despair, she refused to allow it. She’d dragged him back into the sun.

He wondered what she’d thought when she explored the room, sifting through the detritus of his past. He had no doubt that she had. He smiled faintly, picturing her opening drawers and cupboards, and peering under the bed, before curling up atop it and falling asleep.

Dressed in her dark jeans and gauzy, flowery blouse, one cheek smeared with dirt, she looked the picture of innocence. She wasn’t. No Nephil dormant, growing up in Mab’s world, could possibly stay innocent. And Cybele was no child. She had, in fact, recently passed her twentieth birthday. She was a full adult by Nephil custom, ready to face her Ordeal. Arthur was younger. At nineteen, he wasn’t even of age.

At this moment, though, the distance between them wasn’t best measured in time.

She stirred. Inhaling deeply, she rolled over and sank more firmly into slumber. The loose neckline of her blouse slipped, revealing a pale shoulder. Arthur was no stranger to Cybele’s body. Right now, though, it felt like a new wonder. Like something he was seeing for the very first time.

His gaze traveled over her body, taking in the swell of her generous breasts, the curve of her buttocks, the grace of her long legs. Whatever blood that was left in his brain drained south. It felt as though the top of his skull were floating several inches above the rest of his head.

He was hard, his erection straining against the zipper of his jeans. Flashes of what he wanted to do to Cybele careened through his brain. This was nothing new. Before they’d become lovers, Arthur had spent a full three years dreaming of Cybele. His nights had been plagued with images and sensations: silky hair brushing pink-tipped breasts, a smooth, rounded bottom in his hands, his fingers delving into the slick wetness between her thighs.

All his youthful turmoil, as fierce as it had seemed at the time, struck him as obscenely na?ve. Dark lusts tore at him now—desires that in no way resembled the musings of his innocent youth. Demon urges, unholy yearnings sprung from his Nephil nature, infested his brain. Sweat and strength; ecstasy and violence. The things his demon mind envisioned for Cybele—and for himself—broke a cold sweat on his brow.

He gripped the bedpost, his fingernails pressing into the wood. He closed his eyes against a wave of raw lust. His body shook. He wanted to fall on her, claim her, use her.

It was a close thing, but in the end, his better nature—his human nature—gained the upper hand. His fingers unclenched, and he drew a deep breath. The small victory over his baser self steadied him. He was a Nephil, there was no denying that. But perhaps he wasn’t a monster. Or at least, not completely.