Spellbinder (Moonshadow #2)

Afterward, she forced herself to lie down and take a nap. Since they had decided to leave directly after the concert, it was going to be a long night.

That evening at the concert, the preperformance buzz ran through her veins while the warm-up band played, and she had to work at restraining herself until it was time to step onto the stage. While she waited for them to finish their last number, she looked over the crowd from the wings.

With the hot, bright stage lights, she couldn’t see any individual faces, but still a sense of conviction ran over her skin like ice water. Her stalker was in the audience. She could feel it. Feel him.

Hardly breathing, she poked at the certainty. He was there, unmoved by the music, and his sense of purpose was almost palpable. The comfort she had gleaned from talking to Vincent earlier evaporated, and gooseflesh raised on her bare arms. She shivered.

The noise from the crowd shifted and rose in volume, but she hardly noticed. Only when her drummer, Dustin, tapped her on the shoulder did she jump and come back to herself.

He leaned forward, eyes sharp, and said in her ear, “Showtime, Sid. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” she told him. With an effort, she shook off the pall that had fallen over her, gave him a grin, and strode onto the stage. A waft of air brushed her cheek, and she looked up to catch sight of a transparent sketch of a face that smiled down at her as it drifted by.

The Djinn had come again. This one had materialized just enough so she could see it. They had bargained with her to attend her concerts, and she now owned a wealth of Djinn favors.

Smiling, she nodded at the strange creature, and the pale outline of its face faded. Then she raised her violin and bow, and the music rushed in like a tidal wave and swept her away.

It always took her away. It transported her to a place of such piercing purity, such raw transcendence, that it filled up her veins and flowed out of her like liquid fire.

She never questioned her life choices, not when she was flowing with the music. Never questioned the years of sacrifice, the harsh regimen, study, and diligent practice. She never felt lonely or worried or afraid because the music was everything, her lover, friend, and family, and her most demanding, invisible companion.

She fed it, and it fed her, the energy running back and forth, building into a towering edifice of sound, her unique citadel of radiant vibration.

Nobody else could reach that radiant citadel. Nobody could touch it. They could only glimpse it when she played, only hear it because she allowed them to.

After a timeless period, suddenly the concert hurtled to an end. The high, transcendent peak of energy had been achieved, the last strings played, the final notes piercing the silence.

Sweat pouring down her neck, she glanced sidelong at either end of the stage. As if on cue, the Djinn materialized enough so she could see them. They smiled and bowed to her, while the audience gave her a standing ovation.

Afterward, it took some time to extricate herself. Flowers were delivered, the manager of the arena wanted to thank her, and three of the band members had things they needed to discuss before she left. She attended to all of it while the remnants of the fire still ran in her veins. It was only when Vincent and Tony urged her away that tiredness began to sink in.

The car was waiting at the back entrance. Tony rode in the front, while she rode in the back with Vincent. The driver took them out of the arena and down unfamiliar streets.

Letting the men’s quiet, easygoing conversation wash over her, she leaned her forehead against the window and blinked tiredly as she watched the scenery go by—neighborhoods and clusters of shops interspersed with areas of dense greenery.

Even though it was high summer in England, the fog on that cool, damp day had never truly lifted. Now it seemed alive as ghostly tendrils flowed over the road. The time had slipped to well past midnight, and traffic on their route was almost nonexistent.

Sleepiness tried to take over, but she fought it. She would only have to wake up again in twenty minutes or so once they got to the airport, and then any chance she had of sleeping would be ruined for the rest of the night.

Despite her best efforts, she must have dozed. Sudden cursing tore away the peacefulness that had shrouded her. She jerked upright.

An immense black horse filled the windshield in front of the car. As it reared, fire danced in its mane and sparks shot from gigantic hooves.

The driver yanked the wheel sideways, brutally hard. Vincent shot out an arm to brace her as they were both flung sideways. Tires screeched. The car hit a curb and rolled down an incline. Pain flared as the seat belt bit into her shoulder and breasts. She tried to find something to hang on to and grabbed the door handle.

Not only was the driver cursing, so were Tony and Vincent. Her ears were filled with their rough voices, with the sound of a scream.

The horse? Had they hit it?

Metal. It was the metal from the car, screaming as if it were alive.

The world upended, then upended again, whirling outside the windows in an insane kaleidoscope. Then the ground slammed into the car with a gigantic crunch. Pain flared again as she struck her head on something, and everything went black.


Dim awareness returned as fresh, damp air blew across her skin. Traveling across the bumpy ground caused everything in her body to throb with pain. Someone was dragging her from the car.

From the wreck.

Someone…

Blinking at the wetness that streamed in her eyes, she tried to squint up at the person who gripped both her wrists.

Whoever he was, he wasn’t human. He was perhaps her height or a little taller, and thin, with a narrow chest, spiky, nut-brown hair, and a thin, triangular face.

It was a feral face, and he had wild, feral eyes that burned with determination.

She coughed wetly and tried to speak. “Vince—Vincent. Tony. The d-driver.”

“Unconscious, but they’ll live,” the creature said. “So will you.”

“The horse?”

“Untouched.”

She coughed again, spat blood, and whispered, “Thank you for helping.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” He touched her forehead with a forefinger. She focused on his hand. He had too many fingers. “Sleep now.”

Unconsciousness spread through her mind like black ink flowing over a canvas.


Pain brought her awake, the pain of bruises being rhythmically jostled, while blood pounded in her head. She was riding on the back of an immense black horse. Rather, she was lying on the back of a horse as it galloped along the countryside.

She tried to make a noise, tried to move. Rough abrasion bit into the skin at her wrists. She stared down in disbelief. Her hands had been tied to a rope that looped around the horse’s neck.

That couldn’t be right. She had just been in a car accident. She couldn’t be riding on the back of a horse. It had to be a hallucination, or maybe she was dreaming.

Consciousness slid away.