Page 37 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

Staring down at her with the fire of a thousand suns burning in his sad blue eyes.

Luna whimpered, her face crumpling as another surge of tears poured forth. This was so much worse. So much worse than that silent farewell. So much worse than wondering what could have been. Because now she knew! She knew, gods blight it, exactly what they could have been to each other, if she wasn’t hunted, if he wasn’t tainted by his past, if the world in which they lived was a kind and forgiving place. They could have beenglorious.

With a little shake of her head, Luna pushed back from the lamp. Her hand felt quite frozen against the metal—she’d forgotten to put on her gloves. Clenching her fingers into a fist, she gave the post a sharp smack, just hard enough to hurt. Thepain steadied her somewhat. Drawing her shoulders back, she drew a deep breath. It was over now. It was done. The worst moment was behind her, that moment of wrenching agony. That moment when she felt her heart being torn from her breast and dropped on the sidewalk, just outside the flower shop door. The aftershock was horrible, yes, but not as bad as that initial wrench. Surely it would all fade into numbness soon. She would board that train, she would leave Ballycastle. She would never see Mr. Grimm again.

And someday, perhaps, if she was very, very lucky, she would forget that moment of glory they’d shared. It would no longer have the power to devastate her. Someday, perhaps, she would be able to accept the black-and-white existence of her life, now that all the color and vibrance had been drained away.

Someday, she wouldn’t remember the sound of his voice as he uttered those three, devastating words:I love you.

Gulping back a sob, Luna propelled herself into motion once more. Her body shook so hard, she struggled to hold on to the handle of her carpetbag, but she managed to haul it along. It was light at least, even filled with all her worldly goods as it was. Far too light. She had considered packing up some of her tea tins to bring with her, a nice little memento of her time in the city. In the end, she couldn’t bear it. No mementos. If she had her choice, she would bring no memories at all. It would be so much easier that way.

Pausing at a crosswalk, Luna bounced on her toes, waiting for the light to turn. Traffic was almost nonexistent at this hour, and she was tempted to simply sprint across. There was no one to see, no one to care. It was a long walk to the train station, and she’d like to get there quickly. Hours stretched out between now and the 4 am mail train, but she’d feel better, safer, once she was tucked into the lounge on one of those cold, hard benches.

The light still refused to turn. Luna bit her lip, glancing both ways. Then, with a determined set of her chin, she stepped down from the curb onto the crosswalk.

As though that one step had triggered something, a large, dark vehicle squealed suddenly around the turn. It’s headlamps flashed, blinding her, and its tires spewed slushy snow in every direction. Luna yelped and leapt back onto the sidewalk, heart thudding beneath her buttoned coat. She’d not yet recovered her surprise, when the vehicle bumped up onto the very curb where she’d been standing a moment before and lurched to a stop.

All four doors flew open. Four tall, shadowy figures in cowl hoods emerged. Figures absolutely writhing with anti-glitter auras.

Terror choked Luna, constricting her breath. She couldn’t think, couldn’t even register what it was she saw. Her body reacted on pure instinct. She pivoted, dropping her carpetbag in an unconscious impulse to shed extra weight, and took three flying steps, her boots coming down hard on sidewalk and snow.

Behind her, a fell voice spoke a word in the damned tongue of ancient days. A streak of roiling energy dotted with anti-glitter motes shot out like a whiplash and wrapped around Luna’s body, pinning her arms to her sides, paralyzing her legs. She toppled, unable to put out her hands to catch herself. Her head knocked hard against the sidewalk, and pain shot through her awareness. Something sticky oozed down her face, a hot pulse.

Somewhere, distantly, through a fog of pain, she heard a voice snarling, “What did you go and do that for? You idiot! She’s no good to Jastira with her skull cracked open!”

Then blood flowed into her eyes, and the world went dark.

For an uncounted space of ragged breaths, Nigel stood on his doorstep, staring into the emptiness where Luna should be. Where she had been, mere moments ago. In his arms. Right up until he opened his stupid mouth and spoke those words. Those three, foolish, dangerous words.

I love you.

Why had she broken away from him like that? Why had she fled? Surely . . . surely his confession couldn’t have been such a shocking revelation. Surely she knew. And surely she couldn’t be so very repelled by the idea of his love if she kissed him backlike that.He wouldn’t presume to imagine that she loved him the way he loved her, no! Of course not. He couldn’t hope for that, didn’t deserve such miracles.

But everything about her mouth, her hands, her body, her voice, her very soul had led him to believe she must feelsomethingfor him.

“Luna,” he whispered.

A cowardly part of him wanted to flee into the shop, slam the door shut in his wake. To cast himself down on his knees and roar out his pain and frustration.

But no. He’d been a coward long enough. He had to go after her. He had to find her, catch her, make her look at him, make her . . . make her face him. Face what they had together, whatever it might be. Face it and name it and either tell him to his face that she never wanted to see him again, or . . . or . . .

He couldn’t finish that thought. It was too painful. Instead, he stepped out from under the awning, heedless of his lack of an overcoat and leaving the door to the shop wide open behind him. He took several paces, staggering like a drunkard out into the street.

A figure loomed suddenly on his left.

Nigel whirled in place.

Someone came toward him, wafting through the deep shadows. As it approached, the thaumatic streetlamps on the sidewalk flickered andpoppedout, as though the magic which powered them simply could not bear to coexist with the simmering malaise of dark enchantment surrounding this oncoming apparition. The atmosphere tasted of the Dire, seethed with nightmarish strangeness and a sense of impending doom.

Nigel turned, squared his shoulders, his eyes wide and staring. Ordinarily, his sorcerer’s eyes would see clearly enough to peer right under that low-pulled cowl and recognize the face hidden within, but the severmist in his veins cut off his magically-attuned perceptions. But he could certainly see when this figure raised one hand and began to trace a sigil in the air. He felt the transference of power, felt how the light stolen from the lamps was passed into the Dire and exchanged for dark, roiling energy.

He had seconds in which to react. Before it was too late.

Quick as thought, Nigel drew everything he could from that little stain on his palm—that place where the Dire droplet had lain before he shook it off. The faintest trace of energy remained, just enough to power the simple sigil he formed.

A Dire-bolt streaked up the sidewalk, straight toward him. Black, branching arms coalesced in a single, spear-like point, aimed at his heart. Nigel raised his arm, flashed his sigil. There was a crash of strange pressures in the atmosphere, a stink of Dire gone bad, an instant of struggle.

Then the bolt turned inside out and hurtled back at its maker.