CHAPTER SEVEN

I don't like the look Krivoth gets on his face when he talks about his father. It's the same look I see in the mirror every time I've faced major pushback on being a girl gamer. That feeling that you're not good enough.

I always fight it off by going and kicking ass at a game, blowing away the guys' high scores or best times and making them eat their words.

Krivoth hasn't had access to games, though. But he shouldn't need it. He was amazing when he fought that ogre. He's got serious skills. So why doesn't he realize it? Why doesn't his father realize it?

I have a sneaking suspicion I'm gonna give Krivoth's dad a smack down—even if verbally—and I sure don't hate the thought.

The look I do like is the one Krivoth gets every time I tell him he's great. His dark eyes fill with a mixture of shock and awe, and he looks at me like he's a little kid and I'm every Christmas present he ever wanted, all rolled up into one.

I've never had a guy look at me like that. It's effing awesome and sends my heart skipping.

Once he shakes off his initial shock, he does as I ask and slips into the trees again.

I stand completely still and strain as hard as I can, hoping to hear any sign of where he went. A soft breeze whooshes through the branches, a bird sings, happy and bright, and something rustles to my left.

Spinning, I open my mouth to say "ah ha!" But it's not Krivoth. It's a squirrel.

A laugh bubbles up. God, Taylor, an amused voice whispers in my head, only you could get this excited about a squirrel!

Krivoth steps back into view, appearing from between two of the pine trees as if by magic.

I chuckle again. It is magic! This whole world is magic!

"What's funny?" He scowls, so quick to see himself as the butt of every joke. I hate it. I hate that he can't see my joy as something good instead of as something turned against him.

"I'm happy," I say hastily, thankful when his expression eases. "I like it here." Magic fills what had been hollow inside me, so right I wonder how I ever lived without it.

But not everything about magic is kittens and rainbows. I glance over at Storm.

The unicorn continues to breathe even and deep. As a Mage in Warcraft, I've cast my fair share of sleep spells to knock out an enemy, but they're always really short. The thought of one working for an entire century feels horrible and cruel. Such a spell would rip you from your life, remove you from everyone you know and love. You'd wake alone in a new world.

If you woke at all. You can't exactly defend yourself while sleeping.

"Are we close to where the violet trifolia grows?" I ask. "Could we get some for Storm if we had to?"

"No." Krivoth shakes his head. "It grows in only one place, and we're several weeks away if forced to walk instead of ride."

"Oh." Dammit. I wanna do something.

My hand instinctively strays to my jeans pocket, reaching for a phone that isn't there. No games. No books. No TV shows or movies. I haven't even been here a day, and I'm already a bit antsy. Maybe Mom's right. Maybe I really do need to unplug and get back in touch with myself.

Looks like I get to now.

I picture her smiling, wherever she is, off hiking in Scotland with Aunt Marge on another of their adventures. A pang goes through me that I might never see them again, yet at the same time, I know they'd be absolutely thrilled about me finding my magic. I have a feeling they'd come here too, if given the chance. That missing piece that's pained all the women in my family finally made whole in this magical world.

Which gives me an idea. "I wanna practice my power."

"Where?" Krivoth frowns, pivoting to take in the small open area surrounding us. "There's no room."

He's right. It's not even a proper clearing—it's just the place between trees where Storm lost his battle with sleep. There's space for the unicorn and us and not much else.

Games are like this. If you look at something in a familiar way, the situation appears impossible. You have to see things differently to find the sneaky trick the programmers put in. My head tips backward until I stare at the patch of blue sky overhead. I point. "I can practice throwing power straight up."

He scowls at the sky. "There's nothing to move with your mind."

"Yeah, good point." Think, Taylor, think!

"I can help with that," an amused voice says from somewhere overhead. "Catch. Or don't. I'm not quite sure what you want to happen."

A brown blob sails from a tree in a short arc that drops it straight down on top of me.

Time seems to slow.

Krivoth lunges, arm reaching for the object.

I throw both hands up, but my magic doesn't spark, and I stand there for stretched seconds, my mouth hanging open. Is it another deathsleep gourd? The brown thing hits my hand, and I bat it away right as Krivoth plows into me, sending us both flying.

His huge body wraps around mine. He twists in the air to hit the ground on his shoulder and side, the impact making my knees bounce against his firm thighs. We end up with him on his back and me on top, his arms locked around me.

His eyes scour the ground where the projectile landed. His chest remains completely still below me, and I hold my breath, too.

My heart hammers in my ears, my lungs burning with the desire to breathe.

Krivoth looks fine, like an Olympic swimmer able to stay underwater for an impossible amount of time.

But no orange cloud of gas appears, and I only make it about five more seconds before I have to suck in a big gulp of air.

Krivoth's gaze locks onto my face, and I swear he only starts breathing so he can ask, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. But what about you? You're the one who keeps hitting the ground hard."

"I don't mind." His arms tighten around me, making me aware that I'm once again sprawled across him, my legs spread by the width of his hips.

Heat flames in my cheeks even as tingles sizzle in my core. I open my mouth to—

"If I'd known you were going to be this amusing," a female voice says, "I would have thrown a pinecone sooner."

My head whips around, and below me, Krivoth's muscles go hard as steel.

A cat prances along one of the branches overhead, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Her long fur is a mix of smoky gray that's darker on her face, back, and legs but lightens to pewter on her tail, stomach, and mane. When she moves, her coat ripples in a changing swirl of various grays that makes her really hard to see. Glowing green eyes look down at me, and she opens her mouth and offers me a very un-catlike smile.

"Cat sith," Krivoth says, using the correct pronunciation of "ket shee," which I only know because that Final Fantasy game got it really, really wrong.

"Orc, and not-orc." She leaps, and it's not until her large paws thump into the ground that I realize she's as big as a Labrador retriever. "My name is Mist."

I push up to sitting, a grin stretching my cheeks. This is so effing cool!