Tornado of Nightmares (Book 2)

fourteen

Damean

THIS IS CERTAINLY NEW.

Damean stands, staring. He always knew how powerful Ember was, but seeing and hearing are two completely different things. He doesn't know what to think. If anything, he's enthralled. His power wants to slip between his fingers and twine with hers. Power calls to power. Like to like. Although he is incredibly different from her Damean has a yearning to see her power. It seems old yet new.

His hands fold in his pockets. He debates whether saying something crude, to rile her up. He always enjoyed bantering with her. However, he holds back. He senses that this, perhaps, is not the best time to say something obscene.

Damean takes in her haggard appearance. She stands strong and tall. Her chin lifted high, her spine straight. Her hair is long—incredibly long. It goes past her breasts. Damean has only ever known Ember to have short hair. Her curls sitting lightly on her fair-freckled shoulders. Ember has always preferred to have short hair, she complained about it too much. Shortest was easiest for her. Especially in the field she worked in. It was best to keep it out of her face. And yet, when Damean looks at her, he sees a completely different person. He doesn't see Ember Ryvergrave—the assassin. He sees Ember Ryvergrave—the demon.

She looks like an ancient witch, with her messy hair nearing her waist, her shift that is tight around her thin body. Thinner than usual. Her bare feet. She hates feet and hides hers as much as possible. Blood clings to her shins and forearms. Ember looks terrifying, yet exquisite. Serene, actually. Some sort of God.

Damean's lip curls in a bemused smile. He takes a step forward, towards her, but stops. A low, deep, growl thunders through the room. Damean spies the creature—her creature. It's amazing to look at. He had always known about Ember being Moon-Bound, but he had never seen it up close. Never gazed at the things Ember could create with his own eyes. The stories did not do her justice. These creatures are divine. The creature growling is the huge shadow wolf; he paws at the ground and glares ferociously at Damean. The wolf's blood-red eyes stare into his soul. His smile grows wider.

He can imagine Ember pulling the reins. Holding back the wolf while she waits. Waits for his move.

His gaze lingers on the creatures for a heart beat longer before meeting Ember's stare. Black horns curl at her temples, turning into dark and jagged spirals. Her eyes are blood red and narrowed in a glare. She has deep black wings behind her.

Magnificent.

Damean grins, white teeth flashing. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" he asks, looking around the room, ignoring Oswald and the others lingering on the floor. He comes in here often. Sitting in front of her mirror, waiting—patiently. He knew it was creepy, but he didn't care. Damean felt helpless. Sick. He hated what his mother was doing. He hadn't known anything until she had dropped off the mirrors in the human realm. She was angry when she came to visit. She was cursing through clenched teeth at how stupid Ember had been to save the prince and ruin her mirror in the process. His mother was furious that she was unable to repair the mirror. She had no clue how to put it back together. So, she had asked Damean to look over them until she figured something out. But Damean had an inkling of what was going on.

The mirror might have looked broken from the outside, but the repairing needed to take place from within. Ember needed to be the one to fix it. Put the pieces back together. Like a puzzle. And it appears he's right. Because here she stands. Devil-looking and all. She's alive. She's here.

Ember pushes the hair from off her shoulder, the wild-like curls being hidden with the midnight black wings protruding from her back. "Not long enough," she answers, boredly.