Gasping, she scrambled back blindly. She fell over Matteo’s body and landed on his chest. He didn’t move at all as she sprang back up, reaching for the lamp burning low on the nearby table. Jerking to the left, she forced the shadow to adjust its course. Muscles screaming with tension, she waited until the shadow-stain moved over the spilled lantern oil before hurling down the lamp.
Whispering words she’d learned long ago, Isobel used an old fire-starting spell to help build the flames, willing them to form a circle around the shadow. It was one of the first spells her grandmother had ever taught her, one of the few she still remembered.
A terrible sound like tearing metal filled the air as the ring of fire consumed the darkness from the outside in. Covering her ears and pressing against the wall, Isobel watched the oily shadow bubble and boil before the flames suddenly burned out.
An ominous silence fell. The stain on the floor had deepened and it was smoking under the broken glass of the shattered lamp, making her cough. Still pressed against the wall, she shifted to the left, but the blackness didn’t follow her.
For a minute she stayed up against the wall. Heart in her throat, she took a tentative step forward, but the stain still didn’t track her movement.
Slumping slightly, Isobel relaxed, until she caught sight of Matteo on the floor a few feet away.
Was he dead now?
Isobel inched toward him until she was close enough to touch him. She reached out to prod him with her foot. He didn’t move. Kneeling down, she put two fingers on his neck, feeling for the beat of his heart.
His heartbeat was strong and steady, and he was warm, almost burning hot in the relatively cold room. She hadn’t been imagining that when she’d fallen on top of him. And this close she could feel his breath against her wrist. Had it been the shadow that had made him so cold earlier? Had she destroyed it?
Had she...saved him?
Pushing away that hopeful thought, she stood up. She didn’t know what had happened. And all she knew was that the shade inside him wasn’t in control now.
What was going to happen when he woke up?
A memory of those hungry and watchful black eyes came, and she squeezed her own shut to blot out the image. The effort failed. Instead, her mind threw up other nightmare scenarios—body after body of all of those women who had preceded her.
Raising a shaky hand to her lip, she glanced at the rumpled bed. There was a pillow lying on it and Matteo was unconscious...completely vulnerable on the floor.
A tremor ran through her and tears began to stream down her face. It was impossible. Not only would she be signing her own death warrant when the Conte opened the door in the morning, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to hurt Matteo, despite what he’d been about to do to her. And for all she knew, she had permanently damaged him. He might even be dead by morning.
She tried to tell herself she shouldn’t care, but her whole body flooded with remorse.
Stop that.
Isobel needed to worry about herself. Sucking in a deep breath, she spun around, taking stock of the room. It was fairly dark inside the cottage now that the lantern was gone, but she’d always had good vision in the dark. Her grandmother used to tell her it was a practitioner’s natural element, a fact she was grateful to now.
Her examination didn’t show much. There was little outside of what she’d glimpsed earlier. The furniture was sparse and there were no convenient weapons lying around. The windows were high and small. She could have fit through one, but she had heard the Conte order his servants to guard the door till morning. They would be on her before she hit the ground.
A pile of brown at the far corner of the mattress attracted her attention. Pulling it off, she found it was Matteo’s caped greatcoat. Riffling through it, she found the pockets empty. Disappointed, but not surprised, she dropped it on the bed before thinking better of it. The room was cold enough to see her own breath, which meant it would be freezing outside. If she discovered a way out, she would need the protection the coat offered. However, there was little she could do for her bare feet, she thought, looking down in dismay.
A nearby roll of thunder distracted her from her self-pity. It was accompanied by the distinctive patter of rain on glass. Her heart sank. A storm would make any escape much more difficult.
Unless the guards decide to take shelter from the rain.
If they did, maybe she could slip away. There was no way for them to know that she had survived. As long as the door was left secured then maybe she had a chance.
Isobel looked down at her feet again. She had to do something. If she had the protection of Matteo’s coat, then maybe she could tear strips off her nightgown to wrap around her feet. It was already torn from their earlier struggle. Wincing at the memory, Isobel fisted her hands and sucked in a steadying breath. She turned to Matteo with a critical eye. His exposed chest moved up and down steadily, his lower half still covered in his breeches and boots.
Still alive. Her life, on the other hand, was in a far more precarious position even if she managed to get out of the cottage unseen.