The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(36)

It’d taken real persistence to draw him out of his hard shell. When she finally broke through, finally got him talking about his life in England, she’d been stunned. He’d never been afraid of his parents, or any of his Nephil kin? He’d studied literature, philosophy, science, and math? He actually liked books, and wished there were more than paperback novels at Demon’s Hollow? He wished he could go to school?

It was incredible. Cybele could read just fine when she needed to, and she knew how to add two plus two. She sometimes even showed up at school. Otherwise, her education came mainly from television and the Internet. She knew only the barest details of Nephil history. Arthur, it seemed, knew everything. And why shouldn’t he? He was the direct descendant of Merlin, the most powerful Nephil of the Druid clan—perhaps the most powerful Nephil of any clan.

He hated Mab. He was certain his British kin would come to take him back to England. When Cybele told him they’d already come and had been told he was dead, the color drained from his face. When she’d told him one of them had challenged Mab and been sent to Oblivion, and that the rest had given up their touchstones and pledged fealty to their new alpha, his gray eyes had turned so cold she’d felt an icy shiver pass through her.

Arthur did everything he could to avoid Mab. Luckily for him, it wasn’t hard. Mab spent most of her time at Club Tartarus, her exclusive and very expensive BDSM club in Houston. Demon’s Hollow day-to-day drug smuggling operation was left to Draven. The oversight of the Druid dormants and the various witches who came and went at the compound was Evander’s concern.

Mab was never absent, however, for a dormant’s twentieth birthday. Soon after coming of age, a young Nephil was forced to ingest a near-fatal dose of cocaine. If the dormant lived, Mab guided the transitioning Nephil through the Ordeal. If the candidate lived, the new adept became Mab’s newest thrall.

It was no secret Mab intended to guide Arthur’s Ordeal. This was why, Arthur believed, she’d told his British relations he was dead. As Mab’s thrall, Arthur’s magic—the magic of the line of Merlin—would be in her control. Arthur believed that if his relatives knew he was alive, they’d fight to get him back.

Cybele wasn’t so sure about that. She’d seen them, after all. After Magnus dueled and lost, none of the others had been willing to stand against Mab.

Through the months and years after Arthur came to Texas, Cybele’s magic continued to grow. Whether Arthur himself had somehow triggered her awakening, she didn’t know. She’d been the right age for it, but had felt nothing until she’d looked into Arthur’s eyes. Luc, when he realized what was happening, had been jealous of her new power. Arthur, when she finally told him about it, had been thrilled.

At Arthur’s urging, Cybele had kept the extent of her talent hidden. She’d shown Mab just enough minor magic to seem plausible, while practicing the more difficult tasks in secret. Magic wasn’t easy. Self-taught progress was excruciatingly slow. Every time Cybele hit a snag, she wondered if she should go to one of the adepts for guidance. Every time, Arthur talked her out of it.

Arthur urged her to find a touchstone. She’d bought a pretty green peridot at a shop in town. He’d helped her gather alder shoots and braid them into a tight ball around the gem. When she’d started to experiment, using the touchstone to focus her magic, he helped her by telling her every last thing he could remember about his parents’ practice of Druidry.

On her own, she probably would have given up. Because of Arthur, she’d persisted through every frustration. Bit by bit, her first, simple illusions became more complex. Her talent at deflecting attention grew. Arthur was beside her every step of the way, encouraging every risk, praising every success.

By the time she’d turned sixteen, and Arthur fifteen, she’d been irrevocably in love with him. It wasn’t until three long years later, when they were absolutely sure Cybele could deflect the attention of every adept, dormant, and witch at Demon’s Hollow, that they finally dared to make love.

It’d been the first time for both of them. They snuck out of the compound and ran down to the beach a mile away. The full moon, glittering on the still water, had been their backdrop. The sex had been memorable, even if it’d been cold, gritty, and over way too quick. But with practice—as often as they could manage it—things got better. A lot better.

Now, lying in Arthur’s broken bed, Cybele took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was useless. The sheets smelled of sex, and the memory of what they’d done wouldn’t let her go. Those memories were a jumble of excitement, fear, and blinding pleasure. Her back ached like crazy. Her skin was damp and sticky. She examined her arms and torso. More bruises were beginning to show.

A day ago, she’d thought she knew what good sex was. She hadn’t known a thing. But she did now. Dang it all, if sex got any better than last night, it would kill her. As it was, she felt like she’d been hit by a truck, after which she’d jumped up to run a marathon. She was especially sore between her legs. Not surprising. Arthur had pounded her practically to bits.

Her orgasm had probably wiped out half her brain cells. She’d blacked out—actually blacked out. Even now, several hours later, her body wasn’t quite finished coming. Rhythmic aftershocks contracted her insides. Every nerve hummed.

Arthur stirred. She turned her head to look at him. The motion caused a twinge of pain in her neck. His eyes were closed, but darting back and forth under his eyelids, as if he were dreaming. His brow furrowed in a frown.