Edge of Darkness ~ A Darkness & Light Novel Book Three by K. L. Schwengel Page A

comfort of solid stone beneath his hand.
    A moment of disorientation overcame him when a glance showed him to be no longer in the barrack's yard, but on the wall above the city gates instead. The very spot he had faced Donovan's witch the last time he had been in Broadhead. Bolin pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, silently berating himself for his apparent inability to deal with his loss. When he reopened his eyes, his surroundings had not changed.
    There were no torches lit this time. No archers on the tower. No guards at their stations. Nialyne did not stand beside him as she had less than a handful of weeks before, holding off the hoard of hound-like creatures the witch had brought with her. Bolin was, from all appearances, alone in his delusion.
    The burning in his arm spread up his shoulder and inched across his chest. He drew absently from the magic in Ciara's pendant to halt its progress, and watched as a woman sauntered toward him, barefoot, skirts swishing about her ankles, violet eyes like burning gems in her dusky skin. Her dark hair cascaded around her head and shoulders in an unruly tangle. A lazy smile claimed her lips, only adding to the predatory feel rising from her.
    Her finger twitched and Bolin deftly caught the bit of magic she sent toward him, spun it into something larger, and hurtled it back, all in the space of a single breath. A wave of her hand sent it spiraling harmlessly away.
    "You truly are amazing," she said.
    "And you're dead."
    She laughed, spreading her arms to the side. "Do I look dead?"
    "You look like a conjuring of my imagination."
    "Ah." Her smile bent downwards, her face creasing in mock sorrow. "You believe your grief has overwhelmed your senses."
    Bolin bit back a cry as the pain in his arm flared anew.
    The witch's expression twisted again, hardening into anger and disgust. "Does that feel like illusion to you?"
    Bolin shrugged. "Illusion. Trickery. The product of a coward who hides behind a charlatan's tricks. Speaking of, where is your master these days, witch?"
    He latched onto the trickle of power gliding beneath his skin as he talked. It took far more concentration than it should have for Bolin to keep the slippery magic in his grasp. It burned as he pulled it to him. Twice it escaped him altogether, and he fought to bend to his will. It seemed like hours though, in reality, no more than a handful of heartbeats passed before he held it cupped in his hand.
    The witch narrowed her eyes. "What is it you think to do with that, I wonder?"
    "It's a present for your master," he said, his lips curled back across his teeth.
    "Bolin!"
    He caught himself short of releasing the magic, and blinked in the sudden opalescent shimmer of the Emperor's power. Dain stood where the witch had been, Captain Everyn and another guard several paces behind him.
    Bolin swiveled, eyes scouring up and down the torch-lit wall, past the guards at their posts trying hard to appear oblivious. "Where is she?"
    "She?" Dain asked, his voice hard.
    Bolin pointed. "She stood where you do now."
    "Who?"
    "Donovan's witch." Bolin spat the words out.
    "She's dead. We scraped her remains off the wall at Nisair and burned them." Dain's eyes flicked to Bolin's hand where the ball of magic hissed angrily. "Do you intend to use that?"
    Bolin glanced down. A thought nudged through the confusion. If Donovan had managed to conjure such a convincing image of the witch, he could likely do as much with the Emperor.
    Dain's chin tipped. "That would not be advisable."
    Bolin touched the edges of Dain's power, all of it carefully warded against him, but as familiar as his own reflection. He blew out a breath and clenched his fist to extinguish the power held at the ready. As it faded, so did the glow around Dain. The fury in his eyes, however, took far longer to dissipate.
    "She was here, Dain," Bolin said. "I swear to you."
    "I saw no one."
    Bolin rubbed his arm. It still ached, and the witch's magic churned