Flamebound, page 27
The news flashes a picture of him across the screen—alive, smiling, but with the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen. And as the newscaster starts recounting the accomplishments of the man who had served as an ACW Councilor for nearly eighty years, my heart stutters in my chest. Because even though I know we weren’t involved in it, even though I know that no one in this house had anything to do with it, his death smacks of retribution.
I glance at Donovan, see the realization in his eyes as well. We’re one step closer to a war that we might not be able to win. A war that we don’t want to be any part of but one that we’re being forced closer to with each hour, each minute, that passes.
“Why Marquez?” Donovan asks into the ensuing chaos caused by Rachael’s announcement and the subsequent newscast. “He has almost nothing to do with Alride or Lantasis. They vote the issues differently, aren’t friends, don’t have anything in common that I can see. So why kill him?”
Trust Donovan to get to the heart of the matter with only a couple of simple questions. Too bad I don’t have a clue how to answer him—and judging by the looks on the others’ faces, neither do they.
I mean, we all know Marquez was a total bastard—and power hungry, to boot—but if someone had asked me which Councilor might be involved in blowing up our house, Marquez’s name would have been one of the last on the list. His moves are usually much more passive-aggressive, and more smoothly plotted. In fact, the only person I would suspect less than him is Callie. And that’s mostly because she’s the youngest Councilor—she hasn’t been around long enough to have been corrupted the way the others have.
Silence hangs over the lot of us until finally Donovan answers. “Maybe whoever did this knows something we don’t.”
“And maybe whoever did this is looking to cause the most damage in the smallest amount of time.” This from my sister Noora, who entered the kitchen while we were all gathered around the TV. “We know Marquez was an asshole, but he always put on a good show with the covens. The people love him—he has the highest popularity ranking of any of the Councilors.”
My eyes meet Donovan’s, lock. Because there it is again. Another nudge into war.
The doorbell rings before anyone else can add their two cents. Seconds later, our ranch housekeeper enters the kitchen. “Excuse me, Your Highness.” She addresses my brother. “Witchcraft Investigations is here. They’d like to apprise the queen of their progress.”
“Send them in, Leandra,” Donovan says, then puts on his poker face and straightens up to his full height. As he does, I can see the future—and the monarch he is going to be. It’s a good look for him.
As Leandra heads back to the front parlor, the tension level in the room—already high—escalates. I can feel myself bracing for the worst, know that my brother and sisters are doing the same. Whatever WI has to say, it’s bound to be bad news. Either they know who did it and we’ll be faced with finding out who betrayed us, or they don’t know, in which case we’ll still be in the dark, trying to figure out whom we can and can’t trust.
Only a minute or two passes before Leandra leads three detectives into the kitchen. I nearly groan when I recognize Moira. She’s a good cop—or so my family keeps trying to convince me—but since she spent our formative years making my life hell, it’s hard to see past that to the person she’s become. Especially since my loathing for her is definitely mutual.
I don’t recognize either of the male cops with her, but I’m pretty sure they’re the best the department has. This is because, first, my brother knows both of them by name, and second, because lousy cops don’t get assigned to the royal family detail.
“What do you know, Kal?” Donovan asks, jumping right in. The fact that he doesn’t bother to explain to them where my mother is shows just how agitated he is.
The tall cop with the rumpled suit and exhausted eyes answers. “Not enough. But we’re getting there.” He glances around the kitchen. “Should we wait for the queen to join us?”
“No need. She’s here.” My mother steps into the kitchen, escorted down the stairs by none other than Declan. Tsura is trailing behind them, like she’s waiting for one of them to collapse at any moment. Still, I have to bite my lip to stifle my cry of relief at seeing Declan up and about under his own power. He’s still a far cry from looking like himself, but at least he’s doing okay. And when he comes over to stand beside me, I can’t help but lean into him. In response, he strokes a gentle hand up and down my arm. Not enough to distract, but more than enough to soothe the agitation I know must be pouring out of me.
“What have you got for us, Kal?” my mother asks once she’s reached him.
“Not enough, Your Majesty,” he says with an obsequious bow of his head. “As you know, four charges were set in strategic places around your house, next to or underneath structural elements, which caused the worst of the damage. The fire department and bomb squad are looking into the actual, physical components of the bombs—tracing where they were bought, who bought them, and so forth.
“We’re focusing on the magical side of things. Whoever did this has certainly got a lot of talent. They’ve managed to do a very good job of obscuring their magical thumbprint. But we’ve got some real skill of our own and we think it’s only a matter of time before we unravel the safeguards.”
“How much time?” my mother asks. “I have to cremate my daughter next week, and before I do, I want to know who’s responsible for her death.”
“We understand, Your Majesty.” Moira bows her head with a respect she’s never shown to me. “And I assure you, we’re working with the utmost diligence and speed. The entire department has taken a piece of this investigation. We’re close and I believe it will only be a matter of days before we run the people who did this to ground.”
“Close doesn’t count,” Tsura tells her. “This is my niece we’re talking about. My sister. We need answers.”
“Of course, ma’am. We understand.”
“Are there any other leads?” I ask, trying to move the conversation along. My aunt is in superprotective mode and the detectives don’t need the added stress of an inquisition. “Or are we completely dependent on figuring out whose magic is on the bombs? I mean, that only works if whoever wanted my family dead did it themselves instead of hiring it out.”
“Actually, we do have a couple of really good leads,” Kal answers when it becomes obvious that Moira won’t. “We’ve interviewed your entire staff and one of the assistant housekeepers—a woman named Elsa Vinnick—has admitted to letting her boyfriend into the house early yesterday morning. Her boyfriend claimed that he wasn’t feeling well and needed to use the restroom. He was out of her sight for about twenty minutes and he was carrying a dark green backpack. She didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
“Where is he now?” Donovan growls.
“Dead. We found his body two hours ago, about three miles out of Ipswitch. We’re running down his bank account, known associates, anything that might tell us why he planted the charges and who he was working with. By morning, we should have a well-fleshed-out profile on him.”
“Excellent work,” my mother tells him. “Thank you.”
“I wish it were more. We all cared deeply for Princess Hannah.”
My mother nods, but she doesn’t say anything. Probably because she’s too choked up at the reference to sweet, laughing Hannah. I know I am.
Leandra shows the detectives out, and after a quick strategy session that doesn’t yield any results, we all watch as Tsura leads my mother off to bed. My sisters soon follow, and then even Donovan heads up, though the look on his face tells me he won’t be getting much sleep tonight. He’ll be too busy doing his own research on the only suspect we have.
I recognize the look because I plan on doing exactly the same thing.
* * *
After too many hours of research and discussion, Declan lures me to bed with kisses . . . and a few, well-placed threats. To be honest, it feels good to be beside him, especially when it was less than twenty-four hours ago that I thought I’d never be able to hold him again.
I’m exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally, and yet I can’t fall asleep. Every time I close my eyes, images of my sister, my father, Declan, fill my mind until I can’t breathe, can’t think. Can’t do anything but feel the horror swamp me over and over again. Declan holds me through it all, stroking and petting me—loving me—in a way I never imagined he had in him.
And when that doesn’t work, he strips off my old sweats and tank top and licks me to orgasm again and again and again. Then, when my muscles are like butter and my brain like mush—and I can’t even think about fighting him—he returns the favor I did him earlier in the day. Only instead of slipping me a tranquilizer, he murmurs a rest spell that sends me into a soft, dreamless sleep.
I wake up a few hours later to daylight streaming in the edges of the blackout curtains. But it isn’t the light that wakes me; it’s the temperature. It’s hot. Stifling, really, and it takes me only a minute to figure out that I’m buried under what feels like fifty pounds of blankets. I kick them off, fight my way to the surface, only to find out that it’s not the covers making me so hot. It’s Declan. He’s lying beside me, his body radiating enough heat to light up the whole room.
“Sssh, Xandra, you’re safe,” he murmurs. “You’re with me.”
“I know.” My sister’s death comes back to me, followed by images of Declan on fire, the explosion, the house collapsing around us. I sit up quickly, then wish I hadn’t as the dizziness I’ve been fighting off since the explosion tugs at me once again.
It doesn’t stop me from trying to get out of bed, though. Pushing down the last of the covers, I swing my legs off the bed and plant my feet firmly on the floor. Before I can stand, however, Declan wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me back against his torso.
For long seconds, neither of us speaks. I lean into him, then stiffen as I remember his burns, try to pull away. But he doesn’t let me go. Instead, his arm tightens around me, encouraging me to rest against him. And I do. Even knowing I’m probably hurting him, I can’t bring myself to move away. Right now I need him. I need the strength he wears so effortlessly and the comfort he offers so selflessly.
When I can’t take the silence any longer, I ask, “How long have you been up?” My voice comes out sounding distinctly froglike and I wonder how long I’ve been out. Is it lack of use, exposure to all that smoke or just sadness that’s making me sound so hoarse?
“I got enough sleep earlier.” He gestures to the laptop beside him on the nightstand. “I’ve been working.”
“Did you find anything?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m tugging on a few strings, waiting to see how they unravel.” His hand strokes gently up and down my back as we talk. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I plummeted twenty feet through a wall to the floor below.”
“Then you’re right on track.” He lowers his forehead to mine in a gesture I’m coming to love. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” I reach for the lamp on the nightstand, flick it on. Then turn to look at Declan. His skin is still red and blistered in spots—particularly on his hands and arms—but he looks better than he has any right to, especially considering that he nearly self-immolated not very long ago. “And you? How are you?”
“Better now that you’re safe.” He sits up, presses soft kisses to my right shoulder and the side of my neck. “You frightened me.”
He pushes the last words out from between gritted teeth and I know it took a lot for him to get them out at all. For a warlock like Declan—so strong, so powerful—admitting fear is akin to slicing off one of his limbs and then dousing the wound in alcohol. Only about a million times more painful. But he’s done it. For me.
I can do no less. But there are many ways to be strong and the last thing he needs right now is to catch a glimpse of my utter vulnerability. Not when he has to concentrate on recovering. And not when I’m so screwed up inside that I can barely tell which side is up.
“How are you feeling?” he asks after the silence stretches too long between us. This time, I know he doesn’t mean the physical stuff.
“I’m okay.”
He twists so those crazy onyx eyes of his are looking straight into mine. “Yeah?”
No, not even close. But he doesn’t need to hear. Nobody does right now, not when we’re all drowning in our own shades of grief. “I’ll be better once I find out who’s doing this to my family.”
“We’ll find out. I promise.” He eases me back down onto the bed. “Rachael stopped by while you were sleeping. She says you need to get as much rest as possible. She worked on your concussion for a while, made sure there wasn’t any dangerous brain swelling or bleeding, but she says you need a lot of rest for the healing to take effect.”
“I don’t think I can sleep any more.”
“Try.” He pets my hair, my cheek, silently urging me to relax.
“How are we going to find the people responsible for this mess?” I ask after a long pause. “If it’s not the ACW, if it’s someone playing us off against each other, how are we going to find them? There are hundreds of thousands of witches out there. Any one of them could be trying to mastermind a coup.”
He strokes a hand over my hair. “Why don’t you get some more sleep and we’ll talk about this in a few hours?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “That sounds remarkably like ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about this, little lady. The big boys will take care of it.’”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll worry you’re pretty little head no matter what I say.”
I gape at him. “Good answer,” I tell him sarcastically.
He leans down, brushes his warm lips against my own. “Xandra, much as I’d like to take care of this for you, I am well aware that you should be involved. That you need to be involved.”
And just that easily my annoyance abates. In its place is the sorrow I’ve been holding at bay through sheer force of will. Declan sees, and the impartial mask he’s been wearing for the last few minutes melts away. “Oh, baby, it’s okay,” he tells me as tears seep silently down my cheeks. “It’s okay.”
“It doesn’t feel okay.”
“I know.” He presses soft kisses against my forehead, my eyes, my cheeks.
“I loved her so much.”
He shifts so I’m cuddled up against him, his entire body wrapped around mine in his effort to shield me from my pain.
Somehow his care only makes the agony more acute. I start to cry in earnest now, huge, wracking sobs that feel like they’re going to tear me apart from the inside out. I can’t believe Hannah’s gone, can’t believe I’ll never get to hear another one of her lame jokes or listen to her recount some ridiculous thing that happened to her when she went to the bank or the supermarket or the zoo. Hannah had a gift of seeing the absurd in everyday situations, and more often than not, she used that gift to keep the rest of us in the family from taking ourselves too seriously.
I can’t imagine what we’re going to do without her. Don’t want to imagine it.
Just the thought has me crying harder, until I’m all but gagging under the onslaught of pain. Declan tenses against me and there’s a hitch in the soothing sounds he’s making as he tenderly rubs my back. I know I’m worrying him, just as I know that my agony is also causing him pain. I regret it, but there’s nothing I can do to stop the tears.
It just hurts too damn much to keep them in.
I’m not sure how long I lie there in his arms, weeping. Long enough for my eyes to swell under the onslaught and for my head to start pounding with renewed vigor.
But somewhere in the middle of all that bawling, I become aware of a warmth spreading through me. It starts in my back, in the exact spots where Declan’s burned and battered hands are resting. Continues up to my shoulders, across my chest before running down my arms to my own hands. From there it spreads to my stomach, my legs, until every part of my body is filled with the comforting heat.
It’s Declan’s magic; I know it is. Instead of arrowing it into me like he usually does, he’s taking his time, letting it seep in and slowly, slowly, comfort me. My own magic rises up without my bidding, tangles with the shimmering strands of his until the warmth turns to flame.
Instinctively, I shy away—I’ve had enough experience with fire to last a lifetime—but Declan won’t let me go. He wraps his power all around me until I can’t feel anything but safe, anything but loved. Then he uses those feelings to coax my own power back out from behind the hasty barrier I’d slammed into place.
Part of me wants to resist—on some levels, this sharing of our magic is a million times more intimate than sex. And while I’ve felt Declan’s magic inside me before, it’s never been like this. Never been so much a part of me that I feel it in my every nerve ending, my every cell. Never been so overwhelming that I can’t tell where his power leaves off and mine begins.
There’s a part of my brain screaming for me to shut this down. That it’s too intimate, too dangerous. That it will only speed up everything that comes with being soulbound—the bad parts as well as the good.
I ignore the warning. There’s no way I’m giving this up. Not when I have a direct pathway to the fiery beauty of Declan’s soul. For once, the darkness that seethes between us is nowhere around and I’m grateful. I want to relish every second.
Time passes and still he doesn’t withdraw. Neither do I. Instead, I savor the heat rippling through me, touching me in places I never imagined another human being would ever be able to reach.
My headache—nearly blinding in its intensity just a little while ago—is all but gone. My eyes feel much less swollen and gritty. Even the pressure in my chest, partly from crying and partly from grief, feels lighter.
