Mist Rising by Eve Langlais
Chapter Thirty
No denyingthe fact that she was dreaming. For one, she’d never seen Maric shirtless, nor did she own a pure white gown such as the one that currently adorned her frame.
He smiled at her, a wide, happy thing she’d never seen on his face. Sarcasm, yes. Amused disdain also. But that of a man admiring a woman? It transformed his features.
He held out his hand and said, “Come to me.”
“Why?” her dream-self asked, sounding breathy and girly.
“I want to hold you.” He beckoned.
Should she? Why shouldn’t she?
Despite being several yards away, he whispered hotly in her ear, “Come to me.”
A shiver went through her, but it never occurred to her to say no.
She reached for him, only he shifted out of reach. “You have to stand first.”
Stand? The dream shifted, and she woke to find herself outside, lying on a shared cloak between Hiix and Venna. The embers in the fire provided only the slightest glow.
Baer remained sitting, ramrod straight, back to the fire. He didn’t move at all as Agathe rose, doing her best to not disturb her Soraers. Not one of the lumpy cloaks on the ground shifted as she carefully crept away from their camp.
Come to me.
A whisper that brushed both hot and cold at once. A cajoling demand she couldn’t resist. The night was still and silent, even quieter once she emerged from the ember-lit ring around the camp.
Come.
A part of her questioned the strangeness of the voice in her head. She knew it wasn’t Maric, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to follow it. She hurried, moving briskly and unerringly into the shadows. She had no path or shape to follow, nothing but a sense of urgency.
Faster.
The rocky hillside proved rough to climb, and for a moment, she stood sucking on a scraped finger, wondering, What am I doing?
Quickly.
She couldn’t resist the compulsion to find him.
Him who? It didn’t matter. With more grunting and rubbing of flesh on her hands, she reached the peak—a dark place given the cloud passing over the moons. She could see nothing, only hear the lone whistle of the wind and then a scrape. A smell that didn’t belong. Her nose wrinkled.
The clouds parted, and a sliver of moonslight lit the area—a jagged hilltop, far from the group.
What am I doing?
“Come.”This time, the word was spoken aloud, a susurration of sound.
“Who is that? Show yourself.”
She didn’t expect it to listen. And then she wished it hadn’t. It emerged from a pocket of night, a tall and too-gangly form belonging to a stranger with the palest skin. The whitest hair. And dangerous, mesmerizing voice and eyes.
Vhampir!
It seemed impossible. How could a Vhampir be here? They were days from the rim. How had it hidden well enough to escape detection and not burn in the suns?
It had to die! Her hands went to the sheaths at her side, but it spoke.
“No.”
Just a single syllable, and yet it stopped her from drawing a blade.
It neared her, smelling of the putridness of flesh gone bad. The mold and dankness of a damp cave. The scent of her coming death. Unlike the pretty one at the Abbae, this one appeared sickly and also quite mad, given the wild glow in its eyes.
Her hands remained frozen. It neared enough to lift a hand, and a finger pointed.
The tip of it rotted.
Fear swamped her even as she tried to hold it back. She couldn’t move.
Chin held high, Agathe whispered, “Goddess, protect me.”
To her surprise, the Goddess did. The Vhampir’s head suddenly toppled.
