Red light glowed across my room. Zylas, back in his armor, lay in the middle of the floor. A spell surrounded his body, the twisting lines and spiky runes forming overlapping circles within a peculiarly oblong hexagon.

The light faded and the magic shimmered away to nothing. Zylas sat up with a grimace and examined his wrist. The vampire fang punctures were gone without a trace.

“Did you heal your blood loss too?” I asked as I moved stiffly to my bedside table.

“Var.” He rolled his shoulders. “This time, they will not get my blood.”

I lifted the infernus off my bedside table and looped the chain over my neck. The pendant settled on top of my thick, comfy sweater, the pale green cotton splashed with the logo of my favorite book convention. My mom had owned a matching one.

Warm breath stirred my hair.

Squealing in fright, I whirled around and lurched back, hitting the table and almost knocking the lamp over. Zylas frowned at my reaction. I hadn’t noticed him stand up, let alone sneak up behind me.

“Go sideways, drādah.”

“Why are you testing me on that now?” I asked breathlessly, pressing a hand over my trembling heart and wishing he’d step back. “This isn’t the time for—”

He laid his hands on the sides of my neck, palms warm and thumbs resting against my cheeks. I froze as he stared down at me. A sizzle of cool magic sparked over his hands and tingled across my nerves.

Releasing my neck, he seized my wrist and hauled me into the middle of the room. I huffed in confusion as he pushed me down to the floor and crouched, strangely focused on my face.

“Zylas, what—”

“You waste breath making noise when you are scared.”

“Huh?”

He pushed against my upper chest, and the next thing I knew, I was lying flat on my back on the carpet, gazing at the ceiling. His fingers, splayed across my collarbones, lit with crimson power that veined over his wrist.

“You make too much noise,” he repeated, his tone absent. Red lines spiraled across the floor on either side of me. “Drādah ahktallis is quiet when hunters are near.”

“I don’t intend to,” I muttered, distracted by the zing of magic sinking into my chest. “It’s reflexive. Zylas, what are you doing?”

“Making noise is not useful for escaping danger.”

“I know but Zylas, what are you doing?”

His gaze flicked up to mine—and the cool magic drifting through my body flashed hot. The spell circle blazed brightly and burning pain flared down my spine. I went rigid, arching off the floor, but he pushed me down. After a moment, the agony subsided.

“You are injured. I am fixing you.”

Yeah, I’d figured that out now. “You didn’t have to do that … but thank you.”

I started to sit up, but he forced me down yet again, his claws pricking me through my sweater. The spell circle twirled, runes fading and new ones forming as he adjusted its shape.

“I am not finished,” he growled. “Your back is still damaged … bruised.”

Relaxing into the floor, I watched the way concentration pulled at his mouth and tightened the line of his jaw. “Zylas … thank you. Really.”

“You were moving too slow.”

His words triggered a short but unpleasant slash of disappointment. “You’re healing me because I’d be too slow against the vampires?”

“Why else?”

My cold disappointment deepened. I said nothing as he tweaked the spell, working through some unfathomable process required to heal my bruised back muscles.

“Zylas …” I drew in a slow breath. “You feel pain, don’t you? When you’re injured, does it hurt?”

“Na? Of course, drādah.” He didn’t add “zh’ūltis” because his disparaging tone said it for him. “But maybe not as much as the same wound hurts a hh’ainun? I do not know.”

I had been reasonably sure he felt pain, but I’d wanted to know for sure. “If we weren’t hunting vampires today, would you have healed me?”

“No.”

He said it without thought, without consideration, without even looking away from his healing magic.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “Even though you know what pain feels like … and you knew I was in a lot of pain … you wouldn’t have helped me?”

His head came up. His crimson eyes turned to mine, the slightest crease between his eyebrows.

“I see,” I said softly, heavy sadness weighing down my lungs. It wasn’t that he would have decided against helping me. The thought of easing my suffering hadn’t even occurred to him.

The furrow between his eyebrows deepened. He glanced across me from head to toes, then swept his gaze back to my face. His mouth turned down, but it wasn’t his usual irritated-by-the-stupid-human scowl.

“Is this part of protect? I am supposed to heal all your pain?”

“No … it would be one of those ‘nice things’ I keep telling you about.” I gave him a reassuring smile, concealing the quiet but unignorable ache in my chest. “It’s okay, Zylas. Don’t worry about it.”

He canted his head, frowning, almost … bewildered.

“Thank you,” I added, “for getting me back into fighting shape.”

Puzzlement written all over his face, he returned his attention to the healing spell. A new wave of cold washed over me, building up in my back muscles, then flared into scorching agony. A whimper scraped my throat, my limbs locked as I endured it.

As the pain and magic faded, I slumped into the floor, breathing hard. Zylas finally lifted his hand from my chest—and his thumb brushed across my cheek. He smudged away a tear that had escaped despite my efforts.

Then he was on his feet and walking away, his husky voice calling back to me, “Hurry up, drādah. It is time to go.”

It was a quarter after eleven by the time I opened the door to the Arcana Atrium on the Crow and Hammer’s third level. As Amalia followed me inside, she let out an appreciative whistle.

“Starting small, eh?” she remarked.

Embarrassed but pleased, I grinned. “It should be charged and ready to go. I just have to complete the last stage.”

I grabbed the textbook off the worktable, and after reviewing the next steps, I prepared the final quantities of sulfur and iron powder. Positioning myself in front of the array, I took a deep, calming breath.

“Remember,” Amalia said, perching on the stool to wait, “if you fumble a single word, the spell will fail and you’ll have to start all over again.”

I shot her a glare, then focused on the incantation. Eighteen phrases in Latin, and I couldn’t stumble, stutter, or mispronounce a single syllable. I could, however, take it slowly. No need to rush. Arcana was a patient magic.

“Terra, terrae ferrum, tua vi dona circulum,” I began in a slow, measured rhythm.

The pile of iron powder fizzed and blackened. I chanted the next line, and the copper blackened too. As I continued, the salt burned and the oil bubbled. Lastly, the sulfur burst into flame.

As the spell’s ingredients were consumed, a faint glow imbued the white lines. I paused, as instructed by the text, and sprinkled my new measurement of sulfur across the rectangle of iron that would form the artifact. The powder puffed black and evaporated.