The Silver Pear by Michelle Diener Page B

stones.
    He turned the next corner, hopeful, and saw the stream, saw Mirabelle, too. She was walking toward him, head bowed, as if she had something weighing her down.
    And behind her, creeping along, a chill smile on its face, was a monster.
    It mirrored Mirabelle’s shape and size, as if a glassblower had used her to created a mold of the clearest glass and filled it from the stream, and then somehow enchanted it to make the water move, swirl and eddy within its glass case, and then made it all come alive.
    It put out a hand and touched Mirabelle’s hair, lifting it, and drenching it in an instant.
    Mirabelle made a sound, put her hand back to feel what was touching her, and her fingers moved through the water in the water nymph’s arm.
    She gave a cry of surprise, spun to look, and then stumbled back at the sight of what was behind her.
    Soren forced his feet to move, to run again, but the water nymph had noticed him, threw him a laughing glance, and then pounced.
    Its arms came around Mirabelle in a tight embrace, before she could so much as lift a hand to throw a spell, and then it pressed its face to hers in a deadly kiss.
    Soren reached them, tried to grab Mirabelle back, out of reach, but with a gurgling that sounded like laughter, the water nymph held tight. Soren slid his arms under Mirabelle’s, his hands dipping unpleasantly through icy water that moved against his skin, and swung her, lifting her off her feet and spinning, like his father had done to him and Rane as children.
    The move wrenched her out of the nymph’s grasp and she took a deep, shuddering breath, but the nymph was tenacious. With a hard splash of annoyance, it leaped onto her, winding legs and arms around her and claiming her mouth again.
    Panicked, Soren set her down as she struggled, her hands passing uselessly through the water, unable to gain a hold.
    Soren spun her back to face him, the nymph still hanging on, gritted his teeth and shoved his face through the nymph’s head, clamped his lips over Mirabelle’s and breathed against her lips.
    She understood, opening her mouth under his so he could give her some of his air, then he pulled back, took a deep breath, and did it again.
    The icy water numbed his cheeks, slapped against him.
    All he had was the moonstone and the fire stick, but he refused to watch Mirabelle drown in front of him.
    The fire stick.
    It had never gone out, never failed to light whatever Rane had put it to, even when they’d been out in the forest in pouring rain. It had given them a warm blaze no matter if the wood was so wet it should never have been able to burn.
    He pulled it out, shoved it into the water nymph and it let out a scream that sounded like the pounding of a thousand waterfalls. Steam rose above its head as it jerked back from Mirabelle, allowing her a breath of her own.
    Now the thing turned its attention on him. Its eyes were fathomless, but there was a spite and a rage on its face as it threw itself at him, the lashing out of a creature not used to being hurt.
    He was ready again, putting the fire stick deep into its body, and again it jerked back, then slapped at him, the water of its hand turning hard as any man’s against his shoulder. He staggered to the side, and the nymph struck a quick backhander, catching his cheek and dancing just out of reach of the fire stick as he staggered again.
    They faced each other, and he could see the relish, as well as the rage, on its face. It hissed at him, the angry sound of rapids, and then gathered itself up to launch at him, fists clenched like hammers. As it did, he caught movement from the corner of his eye.
    Mirabelle was holding a stick she must have found on the forest floor, and she drew back her arm, shouted something as she hurled a flash of blue light.
    The nymph froze to ice as it leaped, and a moment after it did, Mirabelle swung the stick like an axe, slamming it into the icy statue.
    There was a sound of shattering crystal, and shards of