Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(24)

Only then did her gaze break from mine, eyes running over me even as her fingers traced feather-light lines of fire down my arms, across my ribs, up my back. She’d touched me before, but it seemed like it had been a thousand years ago. Like I’d been dying of thirst, but hadn’t known it until handed a glass of icy water. She was in my head and in my hands, desire ricocheting back and forth between us. There was nothing like it. There never would be anything like it.

Cécile stood on her tiptoes, the linen of her shirt rough against my skin, her arms wrapping around my neck. Fingers tangling in my hair. She kissed me – barely more than a brush of her lips against mine – but it sent a shudder through me. Pushing my control to the very limits.

Her breath was warm. Sweet. “We don’t have much time.”

Prophetic words.

I let go of control.

It was not slow or sweet or gentle. Seams on clothing strained and tore. Kisses were desperate and edged with teeth. Caresses seared, fingernails scraping across naked skin. I needed to know every inch of her. Every taste. Every sound.

Just in case.

Because it could be the last time I ever held her. Ever kissed her. Ever heard her voice. And whether an hour or a lifetime passed, I needed to be able to close my eyes and have it be her who filled them.





Chapter Fifteen





Cécile





Our friends waited in the council chambers, all four of them staring at the row of perfume bottles Sabine had tracked down. “Will these do?” she asked, eyes running over my face and making me doubt how well I’d fixed my cosmetics.

“As well as anything,” I replied, picking one up. It smelled overpoweringly floral, and I wrinkled my nose. “All that matters is that they break at the right time. The blood must come in contact with their skin.”

“Not a problem.” Vincent hefted one of the perfume bottles and pretended to throw it at Marc’s head. Marc didn’t so much as flinch. “How close do you need to be, Cécile?”

“Closer than I’d like.” I nibbled on my thumbnail, watching Tristan go to the far side of the table. The seeds of magic had disappeared into one of his pockets, but I felt their presence acutely. When would he take one? What would it do? “We’ll only get one chance to attack them.” And I wasn’t entirely confident I could take down more than one troll at a time. Roland had to be first, because at least my friends could handle Lessa and the others if they had to. But what if Angoulême’s plans had changed? What if there were more trolls with them than we expected?

“Perhaps we might have a contest to see how many we can hit Lessa with before Cécile finishes her spell,” Victoria suggested, interrupting my thoughts.

Tristan coughed. “As the donor supplying your projectiles, I’m going to veto that plan.”

“Does it need to be you?” Marc asked. “You’re taxed as it is with this dome you’ve created. The last thing we need to be doing is bleeding you dry.”

Tristan sat down at the table and rested his chin on his hands, eyes thoughtful. “When Anushka used the spell on me, it was as though I were bound by my own power. Cécile will be manipulating the magic of whomever’s blood she uses, which suggests the more powerful the donor, the better.”

“But Ana?s was able to stop your father,” I reminded him.

“I know.” He frowned. “But better not to take chances.” And before anyone could argue with him, he pulled a knife out of his boot, pushed up his sleeve, and sliced the blade across his forearm where the earlier laceration had long since faded. Angling the tip of the weapon, he watched expressionless as rivulets of crimson ran down the steel and into one of the bottles.

“That’ll do,” I said after the third bottle was full. “The last thing we need is you fainting and Trianon falling while we’re gone.”

Tristan gave a slight roll of his eyes, but didn’t argue as I tied a handkerchief around his arm. As he fussed with the sleeve of his shirt, I caught Sabine’s attention and held it. Watch him for me.

She nodded.

Carefully wrapping the bottles in a scarf, I put them in my satchel. “Night is upon us. It’s time we set sail.”



* * *



The sails of the ship snapped tight with a gust of wind, the masts creaking, and water slapping against the hull. With each sound, I flinched, certain that Roland stood on the beach under the cover of night, his sharp ears marking our progress, waiting for the right moment to strike. The sailors seemed of a like mind, the tension rolling off them palpable even in the darkness.

“This is as far as we take you,” the captain said, and I curbed the urge to shush him. “You’ll need to row yourselves to shore.” The tiny boat in question hit the water with a splash, and a squeak of fear forced its way out of my throat.

“Thank you,” Marc replied. “But we’ll walk. Please hold your position until we signal.”

I heard the rustle of his cloak and a sliver of moonlight peeked through the clouds to illuminate him standing on the railing, one hand held out to me. “Mademoiselle?”

Though we’d agreed no one would use my name lest they draw the attention of the Winter Queen, it still jarred in my ears to be called anything but. Swallowing hard, I took hold and allowed him to pull me up, his steady grip the only thing keeping me from falling into the black waters below. “Ready?”