He held out a hand. “I need your magic.”

She stared at the proffered hand as if he held a venomous snake. No.

“If I’m not strong enough on my own, without your help, I’m going down like Phel, and you’ll never get either of them back. Help me, curse you.”

It made sense, but every instinct in her revolted at the idea. Her magic belonged to Gabriel, not this other wizard. Jadren stared her down, a taunting challenge in his expression, as if he knew full well how much she hated this. Feeling as if she’d stripped naked and spread her legs for him, she laid her hand in Jadren’s and offered up her magic.

He grunted, yanking at her hand. “Come on, Lady Phel. You’re clenched tighter than your father’s fist on his fortune. Work with me.”

Somewhat taken aback that he hadn’t been able to simply take, she concentrated on truly opening. It took some doing, but the channels that had apparently attuned themselves only to Gabriel gradually opened, and her magic responded to Jadren’s oddly mechanical pull. He let out a long breath, relaxing his death grip on her, and exerted his magic.

The shift was immediate. The storm diminished considerably at first, then vanished with deafening suddenness, leaving her senses—physical and magical—raw and burning. Bits of silver rained to the wet floor. But Jadren continued to pull on her magic.

He was deft enough, and not greedy. Still she had to fight herself to keep that channel open, to resist the urge to thrust him away. She hadn’t had another wizard’s touch inside her since the night she met Gabriel, and the violation shook her deeply. That, on top of the aching absence of Gabriel’s vibrant presence, left her feeling sick and simultaneously invaded and isolated.

She sank to the floor beside Jadren, resting her forehead against the bed, one of the straps confining Selly scratching her cheek, only her hand upraised in Jadren’s grip.

And then he released her, the sudden cessation of magical connection and his supporting hand sending her reeling. Jadren collapsed over Selly, breathing as if he’d fought a pitched battle. Nic looked around, seeing Asa at Gabriel’s side now, drawing heavily on Laryn by her pained expression. Nic herself felt wrung dry, limp as a wrung out washcloth, but she needed to get to Gabriel. It also seemed that it would be as easy to circumnavigate the Convocation as to make her way around the bed. But an Elal didn’t give up without a fight.

Nor did a Phel.

She made herself move, feeling her bones creak in protest, her muscles tight as dried sinew, protesting with shrill alarm. Jadren breathed a laugh. “Now I know why he’s so obsessed with you, Lady Familiar. Your magic is more intoxicating than the finest wine I’ve ever drunk.”

Nic nearly snapped that she wasn’t his to drink, but she was too tired. In the end, she crawled on hands and knees to Gabriel’s side. Was his color slightly better—or was that wishful thinking? She took his limp hand in hers, seeking his silvery cool presence, breathing him into her airless spaces. Nothing. She’d found him before, when he was lost in the onslaught of Selly’s magic. Or, rather, she’d made herself as big and bright as possible and he’d found and followed her out, but now… Nothing.