Legacy (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 8)
Page 51
“I can handle him,” she promised.
“I know,” he mumbled. “And I’m sure you’re probably right. I just… ugh, I have a feeling this is exactly what he wanted.”
“I thought of that,” Sophie agreed.
She hadn’t forgotten Lord Cassius saying, “The ideal candidate would’ve been young Miss Foster,” the day he’d first told them he was having Fitz help with the project.
But it made her lips curl with a smile.
And Keefe’s lips cracked with the tiniest hint of a smirk when she told him, “So maybe it’s time your dad learns that he should watch what he wishes for.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
LORD CASSIUS’S OFFICE WAS EVERY bit as immaculate and elegant as Sophie had come to expect from the rooms in the Shores of Solace, with its wide ocean-view windows and beach-toned decor. The massive silver desk didn’t have a single fingerprint dulling its shine. And the mother-of-pearl bookshelves were filled with books of the exact same height and width, with the same seafoam blue spines, as if he’d had them all rebound to match—or bought hundreds of the same volume purely for the aesthetic. The stiff white armchairs filling the center of the room looked as if they’d never once been sat in, and the marble floor was so heavily polished, it felt slippery under Sophie’s shoes.
But one corner was different. Nestled near a small, flickering fireplace was a dark blue recliner that was so worn and well loved, it almost looked lumpy. And that was where Lord Cassius sat waiting, next to a small table strewn with scrolls and notebooks and a window with a perfect view of a hidden cove filled with dark rocks and beach grass and a stretch of smooth white sand.
“You seem surprised,” he noted as Sophie and Keefe made their way over.
Sandor had chosen to stand guard outside of the office, mostly because they were fully expecting Ro to exact some sort of epic revenge and he wanted to ensure that Sophie wasn’t caught in the cross fire.
Sophie shrugged. “I guess I assumed your office would be more of a personal shrine.”
She’d heard plenty of stories about the life-size statue he had of himself, along with entire rooms displaying his accomplishments.
“At Candleshade, it is,” Lord Cassius told her, his gaze turning somewhat distant as he added, “but not this office. This place is not meant to be seen by anyone other than me.”
“Well then, lucky us,” Keefe said, dragging one of the never-used armchairs closer to his father with a cringeworthy SCREEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAACH. “Have a seat, Foster—you’ll probably be here awhile.”
Lord Cassius sighed. “Fitz has had no problem remaining standing.”
“Yeah, well, Fitzy’s been coming here hoping you’ll feed him some tiny crumb of information about his brother—which I’m assuming you haven’t done yet, because it keeps him from doing all the things you don’t want him doing, like getting himself a stupid chair.” He made a point of moving a second armchair over with an even louder SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAACH and plopped down onto it, propping his feet on his dad’s cluttered table. “But we don’t need anything, sooooooooo… we’ll do what we want.”
“If that’s true,” Lord Cassius said quietly, “I wonder why you’re bothering with this at all.”
Keefe shrugged. “Just trying to settle a bet. Lotsa people wagering on how fast Foster’ll put poor Fitzy’s skills to shame.”
“We both know that isn’t true.” Lord Cassius’s eyes focused on his hands, and he studied his fingernails as he asked, “What did your mother say to you yesterday—specifically? I heard the summary, but not her actual words.”
“Why do you care?” Keefe countered.
“Because your mother is a master of saying one thing and meaning another, and you were always too afraid of her to properly learn how to speak her language.”
Keefe snorted. “I wasn’t afraid of her. I mean, I probably should’ve been, since she was sneaking around murdering people, but—”
“You were terrified,” Lord Cassius insisted. “Because she gave you just enough love to show you how wonderful it could be if she truly cared for you—and then casually withheld the rest, leaving you wondering where you went wrong, and trying to figure out how to fix it, and being constantly afraid that you’d lose what little you had.”
A beat of painful silence passed as Keefe shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You sound like you know that feeling well.”
It was Lord Cassius’s turn to shrug. “Like father, like son.”
Sophie could picture it all so clearly—the miserable dynamic that Keefe grew up with in his parents’ cold, ostentatious tower. And all she wanted to do was squeeze into his chair so she could wrap her arms around him and prove that someone cared.
But she’d made Keefe two promises before he brought her there.
One: She’d do her best to avoid the memories she knew he probably wouldn’t want her to see.
And two: No matter what she saw, she would never pity him.
What she was feeling in that moment definitely wasn’t pity—but Keefe probably wouldn’t see it that way.
“Okay,” she said, taking a seat in the chair that Keefe had dragged over for her—and loving the way Lord Cassius’s jaw tightened when she curled her knees up and rested her feet on the clean white fabric. “I’m pretty sure the one thing we all agree on is that none of us want this to take any longer than it needs to. And you already know how this works, since you’ve been doing it with Fitz, so you don’t need me to explain anything to you, right?”
“Does that mean there won’t be any fancy moonlark tricks to wow me with the wonders of your telepathy?” Lord Cassius asked.
Sophie matched his smug smile. “I don’t need tricks to wow you. That’ll happen naturally, when I crash through every wall you put up and find all the things you think you can hide from me.”
Keefe whistled. “Okay, I’m not sure where all of this Foster confidence is coming from, but I’m here for it!”
Sophie’s cheeks warmed a little—but not that much.
Because she was feeling confident.
Maybe her head was still thrumming from the unbridled force of her inflicting.
Or maybe it was because she’d been a Telepath since she was five years old.
Either way, she knew beyond any doubt that her mind was powerful.
And Lord Cassius, for all of his bravado, was very, very weak.
She double-checked her fingernail gadgets—and her four layers of gloves—before reaching for Lord Cassius’s temples, since he was an Empath and his sensitivity to her enhancing would probably be stronger.
“The memories I want you to ignore are tinted purple,” he told her.
Sophie shook her head. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to decide what stays secret.”
With that, she pressed her gloved fingers against his skin—relieved when no warmth from her enhancing sparked between them—and shoved her consciousness into his mind, without bothering to ask for permission.
His mental barriers shredded like paper, and she crashed into the center of his thoughts, where everything was…
Quiet.
And tidy.
And still.
Usually minds were a rush of color and motion and sound and energy—like being surrounded by thousands of flickering holograms, each broadcasting its own vibrant soundtrack.
But Lord Cassius’s head was like stepping into a vast, pristine library—run by the kind of overzealous librarian who yelled at people for moving the books and took great pleasure in shushing anyone who made the slightest noise.
A lifetime’s worth of memories loomed around Sophie in ten precariously arranged stacks. Houses of cards tinted red, blue, green, orange, gold, silver, pink, white, black, and purple—as if Lord Cassius had been categorizing each of his thoughts and experiences before meticulously tucking them away.
Sophie wasn’t sure what the other colors meant—but she knew he wanted her to stay away from purple, so…
Would it all come toppling down?
As soon as you know something’s forbidden, he told her, it’s all you want. I often wonder if that’s part of the appeal for—
Sophie didn’t bother listening to the end of that sentence, too lost in the purple-tinted memory she’d focused on. The scene was slightly faded and blurred, since Lord Cassius didn’t have a photographic memory, but Sophie could still easily tell that she was watching a much younger version of him retrieve books from his locker in the Level One atrium at Foxfire.
He looked so uncannily like his son at that age that Sophie would’ve thought she was watching Keefe—if she hadn’t known that Keefe had skipped that particular grade level.
Then again, Lord Cassius also lacked Keefe’s easy swagger.
In fact, when she looked closer, she realized that his movements were rushed and tense, and the expression on his face was… nervous?
“Scared” actually might’ve been a better word for it.
She learned why a few breaths later, when a group of much taller, much more confident Level Threes sidled over to him, knocking his books out of his hands and messing up his hair.
Lord Cassius said nothing.
Did nothing.
But internally he swore that things would change.
Someday he would be better than everyone else—and then he would show them all.
The memory ended there—but something about the abruptness of it felt intentional. As if Lord Cassius had snipped off the rest, either to sort it somewhere else or to keep that part hidden.
So… I’m assuming you said the thing about the purple memories to distract me from the real stuff you don’t want me to see? Sophie guessed.
Or I don’t like anyone witnessing my moments of weakness, Lord Cassius countered—which might’ve been a believable explanation, if he hadn’t had the answer ready to go.
Your mind games aren’t going to work on me, she told him. And I don’t really get why you’re bothering to play them. Searching your memories was YOUR idea—YOU wanted to find out if there was something that Lady Gisela hid from you.
Yes, I’m aware. But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to allow anyone to invade my privacy—and surely you’ve realized that something my wife stole wouldn’t be tinted purple, or red or blue or green or any other color, since that means I’m aware of it.
Actually, that was a valid point.
This part of his mind was so organized—so controlled—that anything missing or out of place would’ve been glaringly obvious.
She needed to find the rest.
The parts he couldn’t shape into the precarious narrative he wanted to display to the world.
The parts he’d tried to bury.
That won’t help either, he warned, but Sophie was already poking and prodding at the corners and shadows—the cramped little nooks and the cold, empty stretches and…
There.
A tiny crack.
A flaw in his well-honed mental armor.
All she had to do was slip through and…
… down, down, down she went—careening through a dark, lonely void.
Hurtling toward a sea of nightmares.
But then her fall seemed to slow, and the air thickened around her, nudging her back up, until she could see a fuzzy gray path.
Everything about it called to her.
Welcoming her.
Guiding her.
As if Lord Cassius was providing her with an escape, to spare her from the shadows.
But it was another trick.
Another defense.
And Sophie wasn’t afraid of the dark.
So she pushed back against the barrier and plunged straight into the mire. Sinking past glimmers of doubt and fear. Fighting her way through flurries of despair and hopelessness. Until she burst through to the other side, landing in an explosion of light and color and sound.
The real Lord Cassius.
Not the rigid construct he liked to present.
This won’t help you, he insisted as she focused on the vibrant memories piled haphazardly all around her, like someone had tossed them away. I may not like this part of myself. But I’m still aware of its presence.
Why don’t you like this part of yourself? Sophie asked, trying to process what she was seeing.
Most of the memories were brief flashes—snippets and scraps trimmed away from longer moments.
And many of them featured Keefe.
His smiles and laughter.
His pranks and jokes and art.
The same things Lord Cassius was always trying to force Keefe to change about himself.
And for a second Sophie was furious.
How dare he mentally edit his son?
Who was he to deny reality?
But then… she noticed the warmth.
It wasn’t strong.
And it wasn’t comforting.
But it was there—wrapped around each edited moment.
And she knew: You love your son.
Of course I do.
The words were a weary sigh, and Sophie’s anger surged back.
WHY WOULD YOU BURY THAT?
Far, far away she felt Keefe give her shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze—which only added to her rage.
He deserved so much better.
You have no idea what he deserves, Lord Cassius argued, and Sophie wasn’t sure if she’d transmitted the thought or if he’d read the emotions coursing through her. Everything I withhold is for his own good. Love… convolutes things. If your creators had made you an Empath, perhaps you would understand that—though it’s strange. Your mind focuses on feelings far more than any Telepath I’ve ever encountered. The way you homed in on that emotion just now—it was almost a fusion of our abilities. I can’t tell if that was taught to you or if it’s somehow inherent or…
His thoughts cycled through possibilities, and for a second Sophie was right there with him, wondering if Mr. Forkle had trained her mind to work differently than others’, or if it was because she manifested so young—and grew up around humans—or if it was the result of some small tweak to her genetics.
And then she realized…
You’re not going to distract me, she told him. What do you mean by “love convolutes things”?
A dark rumble shook everything around her. I mean exactly that. And if you don’t believe me—ask the question everyone’s been whispering since Gisela was outed.
It took Sophie several seconds to puzzle out what question he meant.
You mean, “How did you not know she was part of the Neverseen?”
Exactly. How could an Empath—two Empaths, counting my son—not realize they had a traitor among them? We should’ve sensed every lie—every trick. But we missed them all. And while I want to believe you’ll find some stockpile of damaged memories that I can point to and blame for the way she misled me, I fear the reality is simply that while it may be nearly impossible for someone to lie to an Empath, it’s far, far too easy for us to lie to ourselves. Our emotions are stronger. Purer. So much more overwhelming. And we cannot feel our own tells.
Your tells? Sophie repeated.
Another dark rumble. I’m surprised my son’s never mentioned it. Actually, no, I’m not surprised at all. I’m sure this is the last piece of knowledge he wants you to have.
What does that mean?
It means my son has plenty to hide. And all Empaths have a tell when we try to lie. It’s instinctive. Unavoidable. Part of who we are. In fact, I strongly suspect it’s why your creators didn’t choose empathy as one of your abilities. What’s the point of giving their moonlark an impenetrable mind if her heart will give her away every time?
I still have no idea what you’re talking about, Sophie told him.
Yes, I’m sure you don’t. An
d for a second he hesitated—debating whether he should share.
You realize I could pluck the secret from your mind with a single thought, right? Sophie reminded him.
I suppose that’s a valid point. And it’s not like this is a secret. It’s just not particularly well known, either. Empaths have a physical reaction when we lie. You have to be reading our pulse to feel it, but it’s always there. Our hearts skip three beats. One from guilt. One from fear. And one like a held breath, waiting to see if someone will catch us. It’s completely involuntary—we can’t even feel it in ourselves. Which makes it so very easy for our hearts to lead us astray. How else do you think I ended up married to a murderer?
The last word was a jolt, dragging Sophie’s focus away from all of that strange new information.
And she found herself asking, You REALLY loved her?
She honestly couldn’t imagine Lord Cassius loving anyone except himself.
You know almost nothing about me, he told her. Or what I’m capable of feeling.
True, Sophie conceded. But you know what I’m realizing? I’ve been in your head for all of this time, and I haven’t seen a single memory with her in it. Even down here, in the stuff you’re trying to hide.
Surely you’ve heard of coping mechanisms. Surely you can understand why I’ve spent the last several months painstakingly carving her out of my consciousness. I had to sort through my memories anyway, trying to find any gaps or inconsistencies on my own. And after I finished examining a moment, I’d sever any pieces with her and cast them away—the closest I can come to erasing her from my life.
Okay, but where are those pieces now?
It doesn’t matter. I’ve already checked them.
That doesn’t mean they won’t trigger what you’re looking for.
Once again, he hesitated.
And she had to remind him again that she would find everything on her own—and who knew what else she’d discover along the way?
It’s a waste of time, he insisted.
But his mind still shifted and rattled, as if he were pulling open some sort of inner mental barrier, revealing a new light up ahead—a dim, icy glow that definitely wasn’t inviting.
Sophie followed it anyway, into a chilly nook tucked into the darkest part of his consciousness where thousands of memories flickered in the shadows.