“Walk.”
“Oh.”
His eyes drifted shut again as if the effort of speaking had exhausted his strength. His lashes looked very long and dark against the sharp white angles of his face.
Her angel’s breath had revived him. But for how long?
Lara hugged her elbows as she considered her options. She couldn’t move him. She couldn’t walk away. She glanced up at the dark windows of the house, fighting the hollow in the pit of her stomach, knowing what she had to do.
Her hand trailed from his chest. She climbed to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”
His lean hand curled, warm and possessive, around her ankle. “Don’t leave.”
Her heart lurched. “I’ll be right back,” she repeated and ran.
* * *
Lara peered through the leaded glass insets at the side of the door. Even through the swirled and textured glass, she could see the hall was empty. The doorbell’s echo faded away.
Simon didn’t come.
Her heart hammered. Why didn’t he come?
She tried knocking and heard—finally!—the headmaster’s deliberate tread descending the stairs. The foyer light switched on, making the colors in the window bloom.
Simon opened the door. Just for a moment, something flashed in his eyes. She felt hot and awkward, as if she’d been caught running in the hall. Or kissing a bleeding stranger in his back garden . . .
She fought the temptation to smooth her skirt, to check her buttons. Stupid. Simon had more important things to worry about than what she did or with whom. And so did she.
She must have roused him from bed. He was still wearing the long, loose pants and shirt most nephilim favored for training and sleeping. The wide-sleeved shirt hung open over his naked chest. His long, narrow feet were bare.
“Lara. This is unexpected.” His usually smooth voice was roughened with sleep.
She averted her gaze, uncomfortable with this unfamiliar, intimate view of the headmaster. She really should have called first. “Yeah. Um, sorry. I need your help.”
“What is it? What can I do for you?”
“Me?” Surprise made her squeak. “Nothing. I . . . It’s Justin.”
Simon went very still . “Justin.”
“Out back. Please. Hurry.”
“Lara . . .”
“He must have . . .” Escaped was too strong a word. “Walked out. I found him trying to get into your storm cellar.”
Did she imagine it, or did some of the tension leave Simon’s shoulders? “And you came to tell me.”
She nodded.
“Very good.”
His approval made her flush.
“He is there now?” Simon asked, already moving, gliding down the steps, silent as the air.
She hurried after him. “Yes, he can’t walk, he can barely talk. . .”
“He spoke to you?”
The sudden sharpness of his tone made her blink. “Well , not really. The heth . . . And his head . . .”
Simon rounded the corner of the house and stopped.
Lara watched him take in the scene with one glance, the gaping cellar door, Justin’s body on the stairs. His eyes were still closed, his chest moving. Thank God. The residue of magic drifted over the ground like the smell of gunpowder on the Fourth of July.
Lara rubbed her arms, feeling the charge like static against her skin.
“You may go,” Simon said. “I will deal with this.”
At the sound of his voice, Justin turned his head. His gaze slipped past Simon and stabbed her, his eyes dark with accusation.
For no reason at all , she began to tremble.
“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Everything’s going to be all right now.”
“Stay there,” Simon ordered. “He may be dangerous.”
“He’s not, he . . .”
Simon stooped, his back to her. She felt a change like a drop in temperature or a shift in the atmosphere, and Justin slumped.
Simon cradled his head before it hit the ground.
Her heart rolled over in her chest. “What did you do?” she whispered.
Simon glanced over his shoulder, brows raised.
Oh, right, like she wouldn’t recognize his magic whammy.
But maybe she wouldn’t
“Oh.”
His eyes drifted shut again as if the effort of speaking had exhausted his strength. His lashes looked very long and dark against the sharp white angles of his face.
Her angel’s breath had revived him. But for how long?
Lara hugged her elbows as she considered her options. She couldn’t move him. She couldn’t walk away. She glanced up at the dark windows of the house, fighting the hollow in the pit of her stomach, knowing what she had to do.
Her hand trailed from his chest. She climbed to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”
His lean hand curled, warm and possessive, around her ankle. “Don’t leave.”
Her heart lurched. “I’ll be right back,” she repeated and ran.
* * *
Lara peered through the leaded glass insets at the side of the door. Even through the swirled and textured glass, she could see the hall was empty. The doorbell’s echo faded away.
Simon didn’t come.
Her heart hammered. Why didn’t he come?
She tried knocking and heard—finally!—the headmaster’s deliberate tread descending the stairs. The foyer light switched on, making the colors in the window bloom.
Simon opened the door. Just for a moment, something flashed in his eyes. She felt hot and awkward, as if she’d been caught running in the hall. Or kissing a bleeding stranger in his back garden . . .
She fought the temptation to smooth her skirt, to check her buttons. Stupid. Simon had more important things to worry about than what she did or with whom. And so did she.
She must have roused him from bed. He was still wearing the long, loose pants and shirt most nephilim favored for training and sleeping. The wide-sleeved shirt hung open over his naked chest. His long, narrow feet were bare.
“Lara. This is unexpected.” His usually smooth voice was roughened with sleep.
She averted her gaze, uncomfortable with this unfamiliar, intimate view of the headmaster. She really should have called first. “Yeah. Um, sorry. I need your help.”
“What is it? What can I do for you?”
“Me?” Surprise made her squeak. “Nothing. I . . . It’s Justin.”
Simon went very still . “Justin.”
“Out back. Please. Hurry.”
“Lara . . .”
“He must have . . .” Escaped was too strong a word. “Walked out. I found him trying to get into your storm cellar.”
Did she imagine it, or did some of the tension leave Simon’s shoulders? “And you came to tell me.”
She nodded.
“Very good.”
His approval made her flush.
“He is there now?” Simon asked, already moving, gliding down the steps, silent as the air.
She hurried after him. “Yes, he can’t walk, he can barely talk. . .”
“He spoke to you?”
The sudden sharpness of his tone made her blink. “Well , not really. The heth . . . And his head . . .”
Simon rounded the corner of the house and stopped.
Lara watched him take in the scene with one glance, the gaping cellar door, Justin’s body on the stairs. His eyes were still closed, his chest moving. Thank God. The residue of magic drifted over the ground like the smell of gunpowder on the Fourth of July.
Lara rubbed her arms, feeling the charge like static against her skin.
“You may go,” Simon said. “I will deal with this.”
At the sound of his voice, Justin turned his head. His gaze slipped past Simon and stabbed her, his eyes dark with accusation.
For no reason at all , she began to tremble.
“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Everything’s going to be all right now.”
“Stay there,” Simon ordered. “He may be dangerous.”
“He’s not, he . . .”
Simon stooped, his back to her. She felt a change like a drop in temperature or a shift in the atmosphere, and Justin slumped.
Simon cradled his head before it hit the ground.
Her heart rolled over in her chest. “What did you do?” she whispered.
Simon glanced over his shoulder, brows raised.
Oh, right, like she wouldn’t recognize his magic whammy.
But maybe she wouldn’t
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