Excerpt of Enchantment by Nina Croft

Callum sat cross-legged in the perpetual twilight of his
world between worlds. When he'd arrived over a thousand
years ago, there had been nothing. Now his magic had
conjured up the vague outline of familiar objects. Shadowy
trees reached through the mist to the sky. The dark tower
where he made his home had formed out of the black rock.

His mind wandered. These days he found it hard to focus, to
even remember why he was here, though he retained enough
awareness to know he was no longer entirely sane, and each
day drove him closer to madness.

He shouldn't be here. He had in fact died, but his love hadn't allowed him to leave. She'd dragged him back from the land of the dead and dropped him somewhere in between, to a place where he didn't so much live as exist while time flowed around him. Cassandra must be dead. She would not have left him to languish here if she’d still had life in her body. She had chosen him.

In front of him, flat on the ground, lay a mirror, his one
contact with the outside. Through it, he caught glimpses of
other worlds. Occasionally, people would appear briefly and
then be gone. He lived for those moments. They were the one
thing that kept him going in his strange half-life.

Now, he lowered his head so he could look down into the
silver depths. Sometimes all the glass showed was the
reflection of his face. He hated to see the encroaching
madness in his eyes. But today was one of the good days. His
image faded, the mirror cleared, and in the polished surface
a figure shifted. A woman standing in the center of a circle
of tall stones. It was nighttime, and a single moon hung in
the sky. Not Arroway then.

Callum studied her hungrily. Her figure was indistinct in
the dim light, and he forced his mind to focus his limited
powers on the mirror. Slowly her face gained definition,
though the rest of her remained lost in a haze of mist. He
could see the curve of her cheek and the dark red mark that
showed stark against the pale skin.

He jerked back, breaking his concentration, and the image
wavered. No, it couldn't have been.

Forcing his gaze downward, he stared into the mirror.
Nothing. And despair rose up in his throat. Had he found her
only to lose her again? He touched a trembling finger to the
silver and the surface rippled and cleared.

There she was.

He breathed again. Taking in a deep gulp of air, he steadied
his mind and studied her. Her head was downcast, the rest of
her indistinct, just an impression of long, dark hair. He
willed her to look up, holding himself motionless as though
she might sense him and run. Finally, she lifted her head
and his gaze feasted on the only thing that had any meaning,
the mark on her right cheekbone beneath her eye. A perfect
sickle moon.