The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(74)

She draped her arms over his shoulders, smiling and squirming as his fingers plucked at her nipples. “I have...some small talent.”

“Small talent is not enough,” he told her gently.

“But...may I at least try?” Her teeth nipped at his earlobe, her tongue teased his ear. Her hands drifted down his chest, his stomach, his...

Ahhhhh. “You make me feel young again,” he murmured.

She looked down and smiled. “You are not old.”

Not true—he’d lived more than a century. His natural life span was nearing its end. Soon enough, he would enter Oblivion. But just now, as Nimue’s clever mouth joined her clever hands, he didn’t feel his age. He lay back, enjoying his passivity. Pleasure rushed upon him, blanking past and future from his mind. A welcome relief.

When it was over, she lay curled at his side. She ran her fingers over his chest, tangling into crisp dark hairs that had only recently begun to harbor a sprinkle of white.

“Will you show me how to call magic, my love?” Playfully, she tweaked his nipple. “I promise not to be disappointed when I fail.”

He smiled down at her. What could it hurt? “All right.”

They rose and pulled on their robes. Merlin was sorry to see Nimue’s body covered. But her pale skin and long limbs would be bare again, he promised himself, as soon as this demonstration was over. He retrieved his staff, which he’d laid on the ground nearby. He stood it upright between them and bid her close her hands around it, in the space between his own.

“Can you feel it? Can you feel the magic within?”

Twin lines of concentration appeared between her eyebrows. “Y-yes. Perhaps.”

Her fingers tightened. Merlin covered her hands with his. Closing his eyes, he sent his power coursing through her into the wood.

The orb—his crystal touchstone—flared to life. Nimue flinched, as if struck by subtle lightning.

“Too strong?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered. “Not too strong. Teach me. Please.”

“The magic must flow freely,” he said. “Druid magic is fluid. Emotional, yet anchored in solid stone and wood. At its simplest level, it is mere illusion, but when skillfully wrought, it is more, much more. A powerful Druid may cause illusion to become reality. Truth, created at will. Do you understand?”

“I...I think so. But how may such a great magic be wrought?”

“Imagine. Then put your will behind the imagining.”

Her eyes found his. “That sounds so easy. Is it truly so?”

“It is simple,” he said. “Not easy.”

“Show me.”

He ignored a flutter of unease. “Perhaps something small,” he said. “Let us think of...a flower. A red rose in half bloom. Let us send the image into the orb.”

“All right.”

A picture of a half-blown rose sprang into his mind. He imagined the rose flowing down his arms into his hands, his fingers, into the wood of the staff. From there the image lifted, traveling through the twisted branch. The touchstone flared white as it received the intention. A shower of sparks rained down. Moments passed, intervals of time blending one to the other. Merlin poured his magic into his mental image of the rose. It came to life, first in illusion then in form, shape, and substance. Roots, stem, leaves, petals. When it was done, he let out a breath and released his creation into the world.

A thorny bush, bearing a single, red, half-blown rose, stood before them, rooted in the rock of the cave.

Nimue gasped in wonder. “It is not an illusion?”

“No,” he said. “It is real.”

She approached the rose reverently and bent to touch its petals. “It is true.” She turned to him, her eyes shining. “You are...like a god.”

He felt unequal to her praise. “It’s a useless god,” he murmured, “who cannot order the world to his purpose.”

But the girl was not listening. She eased the staff from his hands. “Let me try,” she pleaded. “Alone.”

“Alone,” he said, “you cannot succeed. You are not Nephil.”

“Then I will fail,” she said, “ever grateful for whatever pale taste of your vast power I may touch.” Her eyes pleaded. “I beg you, Merlin, let me try.”

He gave the staff into her keeping and backed away. The attempt could do no harm. Nimue gave him a brilliant smile before turning to face the rose. With both hands gripping the staff, she let her head fall back. Merlin watched the cascade of her glorious dark hair. The ends brushed the curves of her bottom, visible through the drape of her robe.

It was, perhaps, because Merlin’s attention was on Nimue’s buttocks and not her magic, that he did not realize what was happening until it was too late.

His touchstone turned dark. It released a burst of silver-black sparks. Merlin was aghast—his magic was white, pure white. He had no time to ponder the anomaly. The ground beneath his feet rolled and split, opening a fissure between himself and Nimue. The portion of the island upon which he stood heaved sharply upward. He lost his balance. He stumbled backward and landed on his arse in the water.

Hissing steam shot from the fissure. Through the veil of white, he could see that Nimue had not moved. She stood like a statue, her head thrown back, both hands gripping the staff. A dark nimbus enveloped her body. Silver sparks traveled down her arms and whirled like a tornado around the staff.