Ghostlight (The Reflected City Book 1) by Rabia Gale (english love story books .TXT) 📕

sturdier of the two, a curly-headed broad-faced man who went by the name of Mr. Milton, nodded at him. From the lilt in his voice, Blake guessed he came from one of the counties that bordered Alfheim, the elven kingdom to the north. Blake had no doubt the Guardian’s false name was related to his profession; the man’s jacket was dusted with flour and a smell of yeast surrounded him.

Ember made a contented sound that could only be interpreted as Mmm. Fresh-baked buns were among her favorite foods.

After this is over, we’ll get a whole bag of them to share, he told her. The salamander stroked his cheek in response, the caress a pleasant tingle.

The other Guardian was a small, fidgety man with the bright beady eyes and darting movements of a bird. He dressed like a magpie, too, with odd bits of finery here and there amongst his shabby clothes—a glittering pin holding his neckerchief in place, a swatch of butterfly-patterned silk peeking from a pocket, brass trinkets attached to chains at his waist.

He hadn’t been introduced to Blake at all. Mr. Milton had done all the talking while the birdlike man stared out of large, clear gold eyes.

Mr. Milton opened his mouth.

Blake never knew what he meant to say. The warning came a fraction of a moment before the attack.

Alarms blared. A blast shook the edifice. Fires roared in the outer chambers of the Keep.

Swan started. “What?”

“Protect the Guardians and the solar!” Blake dashed towards the doorway, Ember’s fire running down his arm and glowing around his hand.

He burst into an outer chamber, one that had once been a dining hall. Marius charged into the room from the other end, a bullish man with heavy brows and a habitual scowl, who was, rather surprisingly, an aeromentalist.

“Report!” Blake demanded.

“Bastards took out my whirlwinds,” grunted Marius. “Banged my flock up good, too.” Sylphs lay around his shoulders like gauzy scarves, uttering piteous squeaks.

“Demons?”

“No.” Marius shook his head. “Men, in odd garb.”

“Be ready!” Blake warned. “Here they come!”

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Blake caught sight of a strange, bulbous head for an instant, before it disappeared with a yelp as the steps crumbled.

Bard and his stanae. The earth elementals had collapsed the stairs. Marius gave a pleased grunt.

Blake had no time to express approval. Thanks to his sympathetic connection with Ember, he could summon fire. He set curtains of it across the doorway and windows. Marius didn’t need to be asked—his flock launched and fanned the flames ever higher.

The fire crackled hungrily, burning without fuel. Blake slid a vial of salt from his belt and tossed its contents into the flames. They spat furiously. Twisted spires of green and blue danced within them.

Impfire, malicious and painful, ready to inflict stinging burns on any who dared pass through.

Blake put his hand on a vial of gold flakes in aqua sancta. Expensive, hard to get, hard to make, this would burn away all impure thoughts—frequently along with the person harboring them, too.

No, they’d need a prisoner or two to interrogate.

Marius’ flock pushed the flames down the stairs.

Both men waited, tense.

And then came the surge.

A wave of thick black smoke spilled out from the stairwell. The flames whipped and danced; Blake poured more power into them. Smoke and fire fought, coiling around each other like aggressive snakes. The sylphs, now visible as myriad translucent and winged creatures, also formed into currents, pushing back the onslaught.

Fire and air lost.

Smoke rushed into the chamber, filling it up in moments. The fire extinguished immediately and fragile air elementals died in scores. Marius howled outrage, the sound quickly choked off.

The stench of grave dirt told Blake all he needed to know.

This wasn’t smoke.

It was miasma.

“Fall back, man,” he gasped out, pulling the hood over his face and drawing the cloak tighter around himself. Ember hissed and clung to his shoulder, pressed against his neck. Miasma brushed Blake’s hand, sending searing pain up his arm. He jerked his hand back into his sleeve.

“Don’t let it touch—” he yelled.

Marius screamed.

And kept on screaming.

Great Saints! Blake staggered through the miasma towards the aeromentalist. He didn’t dare look up, for fear the stuff would get in his eyes. All he could see in his truncated vision was roiling black smoke, dry in his nose, ashy against his lips, stinging against his face.

He banged painfully into something, nearly falling over it. Just in time he kept himself from stretching out his hands for support.

Miasma rolled up against Blake’s legs, turning the hem of his cloak black and shriveled. Blake stumbled around, yelling for Marius to put up his hood and tuck in his cloak. He cursed as he stumbled over chairs and footstools, one of which completely disintegrated into a foul-smelling ash.

Not good!

Marius’ scream dropped to a raw whisper, then a gurgle.

And then it stopped.

Blake stood, panting, sweating, ears strained. “Marius?”

No reply. He closed his eyes, stomach churning at the thought of what the miasma had done to the man.

And what it was going to do to him. The hem of the cloak had frayed and he was completely turned around in this chamber. Where was the doorway? Ember hummed her distress as fear spurted through him.

It’s all right, pet, he soothed, knowing how futile and empty the comfort was.

He had the sense of the room growing larger around him, becoming cavernous, filling up with darkness. The floor stretched for miles around him, and Blake stood rooted to the spot, unable to pick a direction.

He’d stand here until the miasma nibbled the wraith cloak to shreds, then did the same thing to his flesh. Panic swelled inside him; Blake clenched his hands hard, digging his fingernails into his palms. The small pain helped stemmed the tide of emotion somewhat, giving him time to gather his composure.

The room didn’t grow. It’s the miasma playing with my mind.

Blake focused on his breathing, his bond with Ember. Without the rasp of his panic in his ears and the drumbeat of his heart