The Shadow Queen (Ravenspire, #1)(36)

In the dream, Irina never opened her mouth. Never spoke the incantor that ripped the fir tree from its roots and sent it plummeting down onto Tatiyana’s ebony carriage. But even if her dreaming mind refused to reenact her sister’s death as it had truly happened, Irina couldn’t escape the truth.

The carriage crumpled beneath the weight of the tree. Her sister’s maid screamed for help. And in her dream, the snow around Irina turned to blood. She sank slowly, the blood an implacable force that demanded its due. When the blood coated her palms, hot and sticky, she felt the thunder of her sister’s heartbeat pounding against the magic that had taken her life.

Flailing, Irina struggled to keep her palms away from the blood, but the moment she pulled her hands free of it, she sank like a stone. The blood surged over her mouth and nose and covered her head. She remained trapped, her sister’s heartbeat thundering against her ears.

“Irina, wake up. Please. Come back to me.” A familiar voice cut through the dream, dissolving her sister’s heartbeat, and Irina swam sluggishly through thick clouds of gray-black darkness. She was shackled to weariness with chains that felt like the residue of her magic. In her mind’s eye, the chains resembled writhing black snakes—like the snake that had killed Arlen and that she’d thought had killed his children too.

Her heart pounded, and she sucked in a breath as the pain hit—a sharp jolt of anguish that sliced through the darkness of her slumber and dragged her toward the surface.

The clouds shifted and swirled, the weariness tugged at her, and she began to sink again when she felt something new.

A brush of power at her fingertips. An itch of pain that began to burn.

Something was wrong.

Lorelai.

She tore through the heaviness by sheer willpower, and her eyes snapped open as the magic surged through her veins.

It took a moment to realize that she wasn’t in Nordenberg where she’d collapsed from the strain of the spell she’d used to catch the villagers who’d tried to run—she was lying on her own bed, propped up on pillows and covered in silk sheets.

How long ago had she been here? Had the girl who’d helped to rob the garrison already been found?

Was it Lorelai?

Power stung her fingertips at the thought of the princess. Her hands twitched against the silk sheets, but the rest of her was still cocooned in weariness.

She blinked, her eyes feeling scoured with sand, and saw that the sky outside her window was a carpet of stars, that Raz was coiled at her feet, his golden eyes focused on her, and that Viktor was slumped in an armchair beside her bed, his fingertips pressed against his closed eyes, his clothing thoroughly rumpled.

She made a noise, and Viktor’s eyes flew open. He lunged to his feet, his blue eyes finding hers. His shirt was untucked, his collar hanging to one side, and his cravat missing entirely.

Raz slowly uncoiled himself and slithered up the sheets to nestle against Irina’s side. Long sssleeep. Worry.

Viktor fell to his knees beside the bed and gathered Irina in his arms. Her head tipped against his shoulder, and he buried his face against the crook of her neck as he tightened his hold.

Her hands burned, and the certainty that something had happened filled her.

“I thought you were going to die.” His voice shook.

For a moment, his worry, his desperation, felt like love, and Irina let the warmth of it touch her. But then the burn of her magic surged through her veins, and she struggled to move her arms. To sit up.

Gently, he slid his arms beneath hers and lifted until she was propped against her pillows. She looked away from the searing intensity of his gaze as the magic spread down her arms and warmed her hands. He sat down on the sheets beside her, placed a finger beneath her chin, and gently turned her face toward his.

“How are you?” he asked.

Maybe it was the unfettered devotion in his actions or the fact that he was the one person she’d never had to bespell to ensure his loyalty. Whatever the reason, Irina found herself saying, “I’m so tired.”

He ran a hand through her hair, tugging gently at the tangles he found. When he reached the base of her neck, he cupped it with his hand and squeezed the tension away.

“You overworked yourself,” he said quietly. “You always do. You act like if you delegate too much, the kingdom will fall to pieces.”

She smiled a little. “I have you to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

His eyes darkened. “The spell you did in Nordenberg . . . that was an enormous outpouring of energy, and it cost you so much.” His voice cracked, and he looked away as he drew a deep breath.

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You keep using your magic as if there’s no cost demanded of you, but there is. There is and I can’t . . . you almost died, Irina. I almost lost you this time.” He was back to searing her with his gaze, and an uncomfortable sense of guilt heated her cheeks.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“How would you know? You’ve been unconscious for three days. Three days!” He pulled sharply at his already crooked collar as if it was choking him. “Your heartbeat was irregular. Your breathing grew so shallow the second day, the physician told me to have the maids pull out the black crepe to make mourning bands for the staff.”

“Well, he was wrong. Remove him from his post and—”