In the Wake of the Ruined (The Siren Mage, #2)(86)

I thought he would speak; he parted his lips to do so, but in the end, his touch said what he couldn’t. That he knew the risks, that he knew the danger, and that none of that would deter him from trying his damnedest to keep me.

I set my hand over his. “You remember the words?”

Theodore met my eye, disconcerted. “I do, but I’ll read them one more time.”

Before he collected the book, he went to the stateroom door and locked it. He locked all the aft windows too, then came back to kneel before me and our captive rat.

I extended my talons, hiked my skirt, and cut the smallest piece from the soft flesh of my inner thigh. I felt a bloom of heat where I’d cut myself and saw the skin stitching itself back together. “Thank you.” I smiled and tried to make my voice light. “The positive side to your atrocious skill with spell work is that you’ll be too ill after this to consummate your marriage.”

He was unamused. “It’s working this time.” The pages fluttered as he thumbed through the book.

His fervid belief made my heart ache. “Remember,” I said, “speak the words with intention.” I raised my hand toward him, offering up the little piece of bloody flesh I’d cut.

Concentration lined his face. His lips moved, silently repeating the spell’s words from the page. The ship dipped and rocked and the lanterns above us swung. It was a tense moment before Theodore finally blew out a breath and narrowed his sights on the rat.

“Intention,” he mumbled to himself as he closed his eyes in focus.

“Are you focused on what you want?”

“You.”

“Theo—” I swatted at his knee. “Don’t you dare think of me while performing this spell. Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

I raised my hand to his mouth. His hot tongue swiped across my palm as he took the flesh and choked it down. Just as I’d done the last three nights, I made a small cut at the end of his finger, squeezing until his blood dripped over the rough bars of the cage then I poured some of the seawater, so it mixed with the blood. The words, when he finally spoke them, came from low in his chest, and they sounded like a prayer.

“Goetia hecates thantos.”

Then came the terrible moment of waiting.

I sat breathless, glancing between him and the rat, hoping in equal measure that the spell would be a success and a failure. He was slow to open his eyes, or perhaps time began to crawl. We waited. And waited. The rat remained curled around himself, breathing peacefully.

Theodore looked to me and what little color that had remained in his cheeks after three nights of failed attempts began to seep away. I rushed to get the chamber pot, knowing that he’d be sick at any moment.

He hung his head, pressing his fists into the rug. “I’m sorry, Immy.”

I held the pot before him. Shook my head. “Don’t you dare apologize to me.”

A fine sheen of sweat broke out over his face, but the sickness took its time. I swiped at his forehead, caressed his cheek.

He pressed his damp brow into my touch. Pressed his lips to it. “There must be something else in these books. I’ll find something else.”

His relentlessness would shatter me. I needed him to acknowledge the reality of what would come. “Theodore—”

There came a squeak and scratching. We both looked at the cage, where the rat was suddenly scurrying, frantic, with no place to go. We watched as it walked back and forth, as it set its small claws and yellow teeth into the bars. It stretched long, and shook, and then finally, it let out a prolonged cheep before it seized and went still.

Neither one of us moved as we stared at the dead rat. “Theo,” I said breathlessly, “Gods, you did it.”

“I—” Even through his exhaustion, his green eyes grew wide and bright.

Our elation was short-lived. His face crumpled, mouth unhinging. The broad line of his chest surged like he tried to take in a deep breath, but an awful scraping sound rose from his throat instead.

“Imogen. Gods—” His low voice sounded suddenly wizened. I grabbed his wrists as he tried to scrape at his eyes. He was so strong, made even stronger by the painful throes of the spell. A terrible groan rose from his lungs, head tipping fully back, spine arching. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and I scrambled to support him as his body tipped backward. I cradled his head, my hands cushioning his fall, but the weight of him threw me forward, so I ended up strewn over the top of him.

Still, he tried to gouge at his eyes. The image of Nemea’s eyelids red and dripping with blood had burned itself in my mind.

“Stop, no.” I spoke through my teeth, trying to wrestle his arms down to his sides. Finally, I managed to pin one beneath my thigh, then the other. I hung over him, fighting against his struggle, and cupped his face in my hands. His skin was hot as melted wax and I realized that his power was pouring through him, fighting the effects of the spell.

It didn’t take long for the spell to fade, but all the while I whispered guilt-heavy reassurances against his flushed cheeks. I wiped the tears that streamed from his eyes.

I felt his muscles begin to slacken, and his breaths began to flow in and out, as even as lapping waves. I lessened my pressure on his arms, and he moaned as he adjusted beneath my weight.

“Are you all right?” I asked, looking down at him through the strands of my loose hair.