Mistwood by Leah Cypess Page A

just have to protect him?
    It was stupid to care whether she liked him. Daria hadn’t liked him. She had merely had to spend time with him until the trap was sprung. Perhaps duty was the most he could expect from anyone.
    “All right,” Isabel said finally. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
    She turned and strode from the room, the shredded garment swaying around her calves and ankles. Rokan gripped his right hand with his left, squeezing until it seemed there must be no blood left in either. Safe, he thought, before realizing how ridiculous that was. If nothing else, this night had proven that he was safer with the Shifter around than without her.
    Cold comfort. He put out the lamps and sat in darkness for a long time before he fell asleep.

Chapter Eight
     
    In her room, surrounded by green, Isabel went straight to a window and threw the drapes open. Cold air rushed in, hitting her skin and sweeping back her hair, raising goose bumps on her arms. She leaned out and stared at the courtyard far below.
    If she jumped, would that do it? Would she turn into a bird in mid-fall, if she had no other choice? She gripped the edge of the sill until her knuckles were white, leaning out so far that all it would take was a loss of balance.
    The wind whipped through her hair, pressing it across her face, into her eyes so she couldn’t see. She lifted one arm to push it back and lurched forward. Involuntary panic made her grab the windowsill and shift her weight back.
    She should do it. Maybe when she saw the ground rushing up at her, she would shift. And then she would know how to.
    What was the difference between watching the ground rush up at her and watching the snowcat leap down on her?
    Isabel stepped back from the window and stood staring at it for a long moment. Outside the wind howled and whistled. She held up her arm, touched the fragile skin at her wrist, and thought stone.
    Her fingers still touched flesh.
    She took a deep breath and sat down abruptly on the floor. It was cold, but she barely noticed. Something in her wanted to keep trying—to think of stone, over and over, to concentrate fiercely on doing what she had done so easily less than an hour ago. But she knew it would do no good. Here, in the calm of her room, she could change her hair color and her eye color and nothing else. Only when she had to could she manage anything more substantial.
    And even when she had to, she couldn’t shift as she was supposed to.
    She sat on the floor for a long time, making a decision that shouldn’t have to be made. She had one purpose: to protect Rokan. The Shifter had no pride. No stupid, stubborn pride to stand in the way of that one crucial goal.
    Slowly, laboriously, she got to her feet.
    Ven was back in his room. She had expected to find him already asleep, but clearly he had chosen to investigate despite his exhaustion. The room stank of potions, and there were several new burn marks on the rush matting. Dusk had fallen while she deliberated, and the flickering tallow lamp by his bed cast an oddly sinister light. Somehow the dimness made the smell of potions stronger. He had his tunic half-off when she entered, so she stepped loudly through the doorway, and he yanked it back down and stared at her.
    “Isabel?” He stepped toward her, his eyebrows drawn together. His voice was stronger than it had been earlier, but his tunic was stained with sweat, a dark triangular patch visible even in the dim light. “Is something wrong?”
    She swallowed hard and blurted it out. “I can’t shift.”
    Ven froze in mid-step. He shook his head slowly, once.
    Isabel resisted the urge to avoid his eyes. “I haven’t shifted once—not fully—since I got here. Since Rokan first found me.” She hesitated, then said almost accusingly, “You suspected it, didn’t you?”
    “Yes, but I—but it—” Ven blinked rapidly. “It doesn’t make sense. There must be a reason.”
    She rested her hand on the door, covering the gash she