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of relief as Luther regarded him with the dry fondness of approval.
    â€œYou have not won her yet,” Luther warned. “Casting your lightning to the sky is a wise ploy, but it is still not proper control. You must practice restraining your powers when in the grip of strong emotion.”
    â€œPractice, I can do! Thank you, sir. I must oversee the celebrations. You will speak to my crew?”
    â€œAs always,” Luther agreed.
    In afterthought, Murdoch realized asking Luther to speak was his first mistake.
    Purchasing fireworks in anticipation of his victory was his second.
    Underestimating Luther was his third, but not his most fatal one.
    His arrogance in believing he had learned to control his tempestuous gifts was Murdoch’s undoing.
    Focusing all his joy on Luther’s promise, knowing Lis was watching nearby, Murdoch located the fireworks he’d placed behind the speaking platform and concentrated. He could channel his fire better if he had his sword in hand, but swords were weapons of war, and he must act in peace. Giddy delight probably wasn’t the best conduit for channeling energy, but it was less erratic than fury, and Lis adored the colorful jewels of light he brought back from his travels. He would gift her with fireworks nightly, if she would let him.
    Perhaps Luther would grant his public blessing to their courtship tonight, along with his formal acknowledgment of the success of the voyage. In expectation of defeating his competition for Lis’s hand, Murdoch stood with his bare legs apart, arms crossed, waiting for the right moment to express his elation.
    He hardly heard the greetings and congratulations for a safe journey. At Luther’s words “I would like to announce . . . ,” Murdoch’s spirits rose, and he concentrated on the celebratory Roman candles stored behind the platform.
    With his extra perceptions, he studied the winds and verified that the fireworks would be safe among the rocks, away from the crowd. Even if he accidentally shot off three at a time, he’d harm no one. He raised his hand to focus on his target.
    â€œ. . . that I have accepted Trystan the Guardian’s desire to court my daughter. . . .”
    Red-hot anger burst behind Murdoch’s eyes. Even if Luther meant this as a test, Murdoch couldn’t dampen his shock, rage, and disappointment fast enough. The fiery lightning that was his greatest gift shot from his hand as surely as cannonballs ignited by gunpowder.
    The entire box of fireworks erupted in one brilliant blast of red and blue. Colored fire burst across the midnight sky, setting their world ablaze.
    Unholy wails and screams of terror almost drowned out the rapid percussion of exploding skyrockets. The platform on which Luther stood above the rocks tilted, cracked, then collapsed. Luther was already crumpling to the ground, a hand over his heart.
    Frozen, Murdoch could only watch the horrified expression bloom on Lissandra’s face as her father landed in a bundle of fine clothes on the sand. Unable to move, Murdoch continued to watch as Healers ran to the Council Leader’s aid.
    Even before Lis shoved through the crowd to kneel beside her father, Murdoch knew what she would find. Luther was dead. Appalled at the atrocity he’d unintentionally committed, Murdoch couldn’t even pray that Lis would understand.
    And when she looked up with condemnation darkening her eyes, he deserved the words she flung at him.
    â€œDamn you into eternity, Murdoch LeDroit,” she cried in heartbroken ferocity. “If you don’t leave my sight now, I will kill you myself!”

One
    France, May 1793
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    â€œYour documents, mes frères .” Three soldiers, muskets raised, blocked the road to the village.
    From the back of his stallion, Murdoch LeDroit regarded with disgust the rogues aiming sword and musket at him and signaled the driver of the wagon to rein in his mule. He had places to be, messages