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reincarnation. I knew that in another lifetime I might see the dead again, but it had been cold comfort at
eighteen when my father died. It would have been very cold comfort if Doyle had turned into something
that couldn't be healed, but only killed as a mercy. "Let go of me, Frost."
He released me reluctantly.
"Doyle, can you hear me?" I asked.
"It is still me, Merry." Doyle's voice was deeper, more growling, but it was definitely his voice.
I crawled to him, my knees sinking into the wet carpet. The blood was already cooling. I touched one of
the long silken ears. Doyle nuzzled his great head against my hand.
Rhys stroked his hand down the furred side. "I always half envied you shape-shifters. Thought it must be
cool to be an animal, some of the time." He laid his hand over Doyle's chest, over his heart, as if he could
feel more than just the heavy thud of it. "But I've never seen a change that violent."
I brushed my hand down the warm and strangely dry fur, as if all that fur hadn't come through a wash of
blood. Of course, maybe it hadn't. I didn't know that much about the mechanics of shifting form; no one
really did. One of the first things to be lost when the fey left faerie in Europe was shape-shifting. Those of
us who had fled to America, but kept to our hollow hills, had retained more of some abilities, but most of
us were a backward lot and didn't trust or sometimes even believe in modern science. So there were no
scientific studies of the phenomenon.
The fur was so soft, so thick under my hand. "Changes this violent only happen when one sidhe tries to
force another into shifting against his will." My hand slid down the fur until my hand touched Rhys's
fingertips. That one small touch thrilled along my arm up into my shoulder, my chest, a spasm of muscles
and skin that was both pleasure and pain. It stole my breath, made me stare wide-eyed into Rhys's face.
Doyle's chest rose and fell under our hands, his heart like a great, thick drum.
"The magic isn't gone yet." Rhys's voice was hoarse.
Doyle rolled onto his back, his great muzzle opening wide, flashing a gleam of teeth like small white
knives. Both Rhys and I pulled our hands back from him, just in case. He'd spoken only once. Some
retained more of themselves in animal form than others. I'd never seen Doyle as anything but sidhe.
Doyle strained at the air with paws bigger than my hands. He growled, but there were words in it. "I can
feel it, growing, growing inside me."
Then it was as if the dog's body split asunder, like a seed, and something huge, and black, and
slicker-furred than dog sprang out of him. Rhys and I were left to scramble back. Frost grabbed me
around the waist and ran us backward to the wall, giving room to the huge shape growing at the foot of
the bed.
It spilled upward like a genie from a bottle, except that the bottle was Doyle's body. A great black horse
shape flowed upward, as if something of flesh could be formed of water and smoke, because solid flesh
did not push into the air like a fountain, or smoke rising from some great fire.
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Maeve and Sage came through the door in time to see the horse become truly solid. The dog form was
simply gone, like black smoke that faded around huge dark hooves.
The dog had been the size of a small pony, so the horse was even more massive. It tossed its black head
and nearly scraped its nose on the ceiling. The neck was thicker than my waist. It stamped on the carpet
with hooves the size of dinner plates. It moved uneasily on its huge legs, and even little movements made
everyone back up. All the men were staring. Kitto seemed more frightened than the rest. He had moved
back through the crowd so that he stood near the door, and I think only Maeve and Sage blocking the
door kept him in the room. Another phobia to add to the list for the goblin.
It was Sage who broke the silence. "I'll be damned."
"Probably," the horse said. It was still Doyle's voice, but instead of the growl of the dog, it was
higher-pitched and had lost that near-animal undertone. To say that the horse's voice sounded more
human seemed wrong, but was still true.
Doyle shook out a mane as black as his own hair. "I have not been in this form since the first weirding."
Rhys came forward and passed a hand down the side of that smooth neck. The horse's body gleamed
like some dark jewel.
I started forward, but Frost held me tighter, pressing the back of my nude body against the front of his,
but he wasn't excited to be there. He whispered, "It's not over. Can't you feel it?"
"What?"
"Magic," he breathed.
"Pressed this close to you, all I can feel is you. You all feel like magic to me."
He looked down at me then, and I saw a thought in his eyes, as if he hadn't known that before. "Then
we make it harder for you to sense other magic?"
I nodded. "Yes."
"That is not good," he said.
I rubbed my body against his, and felt him swell against me, instantly. "I love it," I said, "I love being with
you, all of you."
I don't know what he would have said, because the horse tried to rear and found there was no room. It
rose above us like some black demon, hooves slicing the air. Rhys threw himself backward, rolling
across the floor to end up against the others' legs.
The great form seemed to spread like a black coat, opening down the middle. Black wings stretched out
of that opening, and the horse's form faded into smoke, or black mist. When the mist cleared there was a
huge black eagle standing on the carpet. Its outspread wings must have been eight feet, maybe more. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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