The Tower of the Forgotten by Sara M. Harvey Read Free Book Online

metal object hovered in the middle of his
chest, blinking. Around his waist, beneath his clothing, a belt encircled him. Leather,
but studded with copper disks, and both the belt and the disk at his chest were
engraved with glyphs. She recognized the hybridization of science and magic; it
was what had gotten them into this mess to begin with. It bore the unmistakable
mark of Lady Analise’s plotting. Portia also
noticed the Lady was missing from Nigel’s garland of ghosts—in fact, he walked aura-less and empty, devoid of even
Kanika’s weakened shade.
    He
crossed his arms and smiled in his usual silky manner, which put Portia immediately
on edge. "Did you miss me?"
    "That’s a stupid thing to say. Of course not! I came for my axe."
    "Your axe? Didn’t you leave it behind?"
    "Not by choice."
    "Well, I suppose you ought to come and get it, then."
He stretched one arm out, indicating the chamber in which Imogen had been kept.
    Portia looked between him and the door. It opened with a soft creak of its hinges.
    "I’ve tried, but you sealed the damn thing to yourself and I
can’t wield it."
    Ignoring
him, she glanced into the room. The axe sat there, glinting on the stone floor.
She took a step toward it, and Nigel fell in behind her.
    "So
there’s no use for me keeping it. It does belong to you."
    Portia
did not like his tone, but she turned away from him and focused on her weapon.
Nigel made a quick movement toward her, but she deflected him with her wings.
Something passed through the feathers, irritating them as it went. She reached
out her hand and called for the axe, commanding it by the name of her own
father’s soul bound inside: Zepar.
    The
golden axe flew through the room, end over end, a strange and ever-present
light gleaming on the crescent-moon blade and the sturdy hammerhead, as well as
the twining spike that stretched from the tip. For a moment, she feared it
would come to rest in her hand blade-first, but the shaft swung around and
deposited itself firmly in her grip. The touch of the Nephilim-leather wrapped
handle still gave her a moment’s revulsion, but she
swallowed it back and turned on Nigel.
    He
had his hands clasped at his waist with no obvious sign of a weapon in them.
His smile told a different story.
    "Listen,
we’ve gotten off to a bad start, you and I. We can
make it different, Portia, we don’t have to dance to the
tune they play!"
    "I
think you made that decision some time ago, Nigel. And from what I remember,
you are a tremendous dancer."
    He
chuckled and advanced a step. Portia held her ground.
    From
her hiding place on the balcony, Imogen sent Portia a vision: a carriage coming
into the circus grounds. And that was not all: dim figures rose from the
shadows between buildings and along the seashore. A low moan rode in on the
ocean breeze.
    "What’s going on out there? What were those things trying to kill
me?"
    "Kill
you? Silly girl, the likes of they can’t kill you. They sought
only to entertain you."
    In
her double vision she saw Nigel’s smile widen as he
shifted his weight; she saw the carriage coming to a stop just outside the
copper line surrounding the circus. She shut her eyes for a moment,
disoriented.
    Nigel
sprang on her, taking advantage, but Portia sidestepped him. His spirit essence
glowed through her eyelids. She thrust out her leg and caught him at the
ankles, kicking his feet out from beneath him. He did not fall, but only
staggered, turning away from her for a moment to protect whatever he had hidden
in his shirtsleeve.
    Portia
covered the distance to the door in a few lunging steps and waited for his next
move. Outside, a maelstrom brewed, and even Nigel paused to listen, concern
clouding his features.
    "Not yet," he murmured. "Damn it, not yet !"
    "Portia!" Imogen’s cry speared Portia’s
heart with its grief and terror. "Hurry! It’s Radinka!"
    She
stepped across the threshold to find Imogen half-over the railing already. Far
below them, a young girl whose