Azriel didn’t think, just dove into the freezing waters.
He saw her. Ten feet below him—eyes wide and sinking fast. The world was nothing around him. An icy, desolate wasteland. But there she was—Elain.
A spot of light and warmth. No sound but the beating of her heart.
He would not let this woman drown. Not again.
He swam, pumping legs and wings and arms, like an arrow through the water. The shimmering white of the gown fell around her like a halo, golden hair trailing up as she kicked and thrashed to be free. But the weight and layers of the gown pulled her down,
down,
down,
tangled in her legs.
Azriel reached for her with hand and shadow. He’d never called them in water, had never had the need. But as light faded and his lungs began to burn—as he saw her inhale water—he willed himself into them…
And materialized in the icy blackness beneath her feet. With a mighty beat of his wings, he launched himself up. Grabbing Elain around the waist, he shot for the surface.
Brighter and brighter the world around him became—until he broke the surface, hauling Elain with him. He leaned back, pulling her onto his chest, legs and wings propelling them to shore. When his feet hit the shelf, he stood.
Every slice of wind on his body felt like a thousand needles made of ice. But he didn’t care as Elain started coughing, as he laid her out on the shore. This woman—Elain.
Her eyes were cloudy, her movements all too familiar, no reaction to the cold, to the forest.
“Elain.” Her eyes snapped to him, clear, haunted. She blinked as she coughed and vomited up more water. Then she was gasping and wheezing, pushing off the ground as if realizing where she was. She fisted a hand into his leathers, and Azriel pulled her into his lap.
“Elain, Elain, Elain,” he said. And he didn’t know why it felt different, didn’t know what exactly the feeling was. But it was as if his arms had been searching for her, for something shaped exactly like her to fill them—perfectly, she fit perfectly. And he knew he could never let her go.
Elain hooked one arm around his neck, the other under his arm to latch onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Shh.” Azriel smoothed her hair and pressed his chin atop her head. He needed to hold her, touch her. “You’re my friend. You’ve nothing to apologize for—nothing.”
They were both shaking, freezing. She said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why I came here. I’m scared—Azriel. I don’t know anymore, I don’t know, I don’t…”
“It’s okay. I know. I know what that’s like. I know.” And he did. He’d grown up in the darkness. Had learned to survive by embracing it, by identifying with it—he was shadowsinger, not Illyrian.
He tightened his hold on her as an icy wind sliced across the lake. He needed to get them both someplace warm. “Let me help you,” he whispered. “Ask me to help you.”
A tiny, cold hand tightened around the back of his neck. “Help me, Azriel. Please.”
A black, icy wind swept them up as he winnowed them away. And he thought he might have felt a thread of warmth and life entwined among the shadows.
