Feral Magic: An Urban Fantasy Romance-Thriller

  * * *

  My nose stung where it met the floor. My heart echoed in my ears. Something moved behind me. I flipped onto my back, finally able to move, calling magic around me in a cushion so thick it made even my breathing hard.

  A man stepped back, hands held outward. Soothing words came from him. Stock still, I waited. He made no move to advance on me. Black pepper, nutmeg, and musk stirred on the breeze. Familiar scents. My head reeled. I was lost, so lost.

  Slate floors were beneath me, stealing away my heat. Dim light outlined Mordon standing in the doorway. It was Mordon, not the animation? Would he turn into it, the way Railey had?

  I caught his scent again, then the oak of the chest and the distant song of mandrake. Was I in this world to stay or would my surroundings fade again? When would the nightmares weep forth from the walls?

  Mandrake. The potion. Distantly, it all came back to me. My last morning in my home. Silverton, the antiquities shop. Magic, feral magic. It seemed like a dream to me now.

  Mandrake had a way of doing that. It made what was real seem bizarre and what was bizarre seem natural. I had been in this state before, I would emerge from it well enough. Knowing this, though, didn't make enduring the effects any easier.

  Curling my knees to my chin, I heaved a breath which came out more like a sob. The heat drained from my body. Shivers shuddered through my body. Mordon dropped a blanket over my shoulders. I didn't say anything. He pressed a hot cup into my hand. I felt too sick to try it.

  “Have a taste before it becomes cold,” Mordon's tone was not soothing, but icy; he was angry, definitely angry.

  For lack of anything else to do, I complied, and was surprised when a salty drink met my lips. Drake's brew. I blinked, supposing that meant that he had not called our healer in residence to make her tea.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You can thank me by not ever doing something like that ever again.”

  Mordon was concerned? But why? He hardly knew me. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. I laughed, reveling in the fey giggle. “Why should it matter to you what I do in my free time? If it's too much for you to handle, I can go into it alone next time.”

  Iron manacles grasped my upper arms. Only when I focused my gaze did I see those weren't manacles at all, but Mordon's hands. Which was the real world, which was the dream? A green flame bobbed in front of me, first to one side then the other. I blinked in confusion when it split into three.

  “You are still under its influence.” Mordon sounded disgusted, as though I had taken mandrake for the fun of it. I didn't care.

  “Most certainly.” I giggled.

  “How long?”

  Was he going to be one of those people? Mordon must have never been around a potion-brewer. My giggle faded into an annoyed eye-roll. I tried to answer him seriously.

  “Dunno. Spell didn't say. But I guess it would last for about six hours? The most I ever done was way back when when I was still going to healers a lot and once they gave me a dose double that and that lasted for nine hours, and I was seeing hiccuping pink elephants and floating islands and it wasn't until years later that Leazar told me he thought I was fun to mess with and he was showing me surrealist paintings from some book and playing all these cartoons which only make sense if you're high on drugs anyway. Speaking of, do you got any a that stuff that you can write on so spells won't actually happen? I think I got some stuff to draw and things.”

  Mordon raised an eyebrow at me. He said, slowly, “You are speaking of disenchanted parchment. Yes, I do, but no, I don't think you need that in your current state. You'd be just as likely to draw scribbles as anything of use. Nor am I willing to go downstairs to get it. And I'm not willing to leave you alone. Who is Leazar?”

  His eyebrows moved in the most strange way. First down so his face was all wrinkles, then up to meet his hairline, then all over his forehead in diagonals.

  I said, “My brother. Older brother. He's a peacekeeper.”

  “Good. Ironic given his teasing, but good. I much prefer you this way than drooling and screaming,” Mordon said.

  “I don't drool.” I yawned, pulled Mordon to sit next to me, then put my head on his shoulder and snuggled under his arm. It felt good to be warm.