by Tessa Adams
“Do you know where they went?” I ask.
“No idea.” She rolls her eyes. “You know men—they’re not exactly forthcoming. But I will say, they both looked pissed as hell when they left.”
“Pissed as hell? At each other or someone else?”
“Oh, each other, definitely.” She lowers her voice. “Whatever that guy said, your brother didn’t like it and vice versa.”
I close my eyes and try to ignore the fact that the tension headache I’ve had most of the afternoon is now working its way around my temples to the spot right behind my eyes, so that now my whole head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise.
Before I can say anything else, the bells Travis tied to the front door for the holidays jingle. I look up in time to see Salima entering my coffeehouse, her bag of doom over her right arm.
“Shit.” I duck into the kitchen before she can see me. “Tell her I’m not here.”
But somehow I have a feeling that isn’t good enough—I’m terrified she has radar where I’m concerned. Determined not to get trapped in another discussion about how I can flex my magic muscles, I grab my cell phone, shove it in my pocket and duck out the back door.
I’m totally aware of how ridiculous it is that I’m running from a little old lady with a beehive and atrocious fashion sense but I can only imagine the discussion she and my mother had about me this morning. I’d rather freeze to death out here than go back in my shop until I know she’s gone.
While I’m standing here, I pull out my cell phone and call Donovan. If he’s already had a chance to meet with the ACW rep for our coven, he might have some answers for me. And to be honest, I could really use some of those. As well as some advice on how to deal with it.
He doesn’t pick up his phone.
Which means he’s either in the middle of the meeting or Declan and he have beaten the hell out of each other and he’s lying in a ditch somewhere. In my head, I see how easily things between Declan and Donovan can go south, and while I love and admire my brother and his magic, deep inside I know he’s no match for Declan. Of course, from what I’ve seen, nothing short of a nuclear bomb really is.
I fire off a quick text to Donovan asking him how everything is going with the Council.
Uneasiness is growing in me, razor blades of anxiety rocketing along my nerve endings and I pace up the block a little to relieve the tension, then turn to return to Beanz. Except I can’t go back.
It’s like I’ve run into a giant wall right here in the middle of the sidewalk. I can’t see it, can’t touch it, but it’s there all the same, preventing me from moving forward.
And then it starts. The compulsion that wants me to walk and the pain that comes from trying to resist it. There’s something inside me pushing, pulling, dragging me up the street, making me walk faster and faster. Part of me wants to grab on to a passing light post and just hold on for dear life, but somehow I don’t think that will work. Plus, it will make me look completely insane. And while this is Austin, a place where most people respect others’ rights to be completely nuts at any given time, it’s probably better to keep a low profile. That way I have at least a chance of staying out of jail tonight.
As I stumble up the street, I try Donovan’s number again. No answer. Damn it.
The compulsion is getting heavier, but I’m still thinking this time and I’m smart enough to know I don’t want to do this alone. Not after what happened last time. Not ever again.
I call Lily, no answer. Shit, if I end up having to call the witch whisperer to get me out of this, I will never forgive myself. Or my mother.
I’d call Declan, but I left the card from Ryder at home. He might not be my first choice to get me out of this mess, but I know if anyone can help me, he can. Suddenly I remember those phone calls from him last night when I was tied to the bed. Maybe I don’t need his card after all.
Freaking out now because the compulsion is building—the electric current deep inside me getting more and more painful—I fumble through my phone to the call log and hit the most recent unknown number on it. According to the log, the call came in at seven eighteen last night.
“Hello?”
As soon as he picks up, I open my mouth to pour out the details of where I am and what’s happening to me. After all, I don’t know how long I’ll have before this thing takes me completely over. Except, right before I start babbling, it registers on me. The voice that answers isn’t Declan’s. It’s vaguely familiar and I know I’ve heard it before, but I can’t place it—especially since whoever is on the other end is either whispering or very hoarse.
Not that I’m at my best right now, anyway. I can barely think, barely breathe through the electricity rocketing through me.
“Who is this?” I demand. Not the most polite greeting I’ve ever given, but a whole new set of alarm bells just started shrieking in the back of my head.
“You don’t know? You’re the one who called me, sweetheart.”
“Sorry. I guess I have the wrong number.”
I know I don’t—this is the number that called me last night—but instincts I didn’t even know I had are warning me that something is very wrong about this guy. I know that he can’t hurt me, that he has no idea where I am right now, but that doesn’t matter. My whole body feels bruised and achy again, like every word this guy has said is somehow a physical weapon, striking out at me, battering me. Even worse, there’s an electricity deep inside me that shouldn’t be there. I don’t understand it, but it’s making me frantic.
Is this how he got me in my own home? How he chained me to my bed with only a spell—this electric connection we seem to have despite my best intentions?
Or am I just imagining things? Seeing the boogeyman around every corner because I’m freaking out over everything that’s happened.
Either way, I’m done with this guy. “I’m hanging up,” I tell him, pulling the phone away from my ear as I turn the corner onto South Congress.
“Xandra, wait.”
I freeze. Not a wrong number after all. I put the phone back up to my ear, but not before I press record. Everything inside me screams that this is it, this is him.
“Who is this?” I repeat. I’m running now, straight down Seventeenth Street without any understanding of what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. The streets are almost empty—everyone’s gone home to prepare for tonight, so there’s no one to look at me strangely as I sprint down the street in the platform heels I wore to celebrate New Year’s. I’m not looking for Donovan or Declan anymore. I’m just following the invisible string that’s pulling me along.
“Are you almost there?”
“Almost where?”
“I think you’ll know when you see it.”
When I see what? I make the left turn onto Congress on the fly. I’m running flat out now, slowing only when I slip or slide on a puddle left over from last night’s rain. It will be a miracle if I don’t kill myself out here—or at the least, break an ankle.
“Are you the one who did that to me last night?” I demand.
“I have to admit, I was a little disappointed. I was sure you’d have freed yourself by the time I called. Such a disappointment you’re turning out to be.”
I laugh, though it isn’t a pleasant sound. “If you’re trying to get in my head, it’s going to take more than calling me a disappointment to do it, you sick fuck.”
“Now, now.” His voice is little more than a hiss now. “There’s no reason to get testy.”
“You nearly killed me.”
“You nearly killed yourself. You were perfectly safe until you set the room on fire.” He clucks his tongue. “What a mess you made.”
Chills run down my spine. How does he know that? How does he know that? He wasn’t there—I would have sensed him. And if I didn’t, surely Declan would have, right?
I skid to a stop at the end of Congress Avenue. I’m standing in front of the gates to the Texas State Capitol. It’s a huge building modeled after t
he U.S. Capitol—with one exception. It’s taller, because when they were building it, the Texas State legislators were determined that it be bigger and grander than the building where the U.S. Congress meets. It was totally egotistical and totally Texas, and of course, they succeeded. To this day, it’s the tallest capitol building in the country.
And also one of the most heavily guarded.
Because the Capitol is closed to tours tonight, the heavy, decorative gates that block the driveway up to it are also closed. There’s a police car in front of the gates and I know from experience—I tried to take a tour of the Capitol last year, just for fun—that there are a lot more security measures inside the fence.
Which is a problem, because I need to be in there.
Each second I’m standing here, the electricity is getting worse, the compulsion inside of me growing until I feel like I’m going to shatter into a million pieces if I can’t get past this gate. If I can’t get to where I need to go.
“You’re there. Good girl,” he croons from the other end of my phone.
How does he know? Is he watching me? I whirl around, scan the almost empty streets. I don’t see anyone staring at me, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here, sitting in one of the restaurants or other buildings, looking down on me. Or he could be skulking in the dusky shadows between the streetlights. Anything is possible.
I need to get out of here. I can feel it. Every brain cell I have is screaming at me to flee. It’s not good that this maniac—this monster—knows where I am. It puts me in danger.
From him.
From the cop slowly climbing out of his car and heading toward me.
And maybe, most urgently, from the pressure building inside of me until I feel like I’m going to explode.
I try to leave, but the second I take a couple of steps away from the fence, sharp jolts of lightning rip through me. For long seconds, I can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but feel the excruciating agony as it sizzles along my nerve endings. I force myself to take one more step, though all I can really manage is to slide my right foot two inches forward along the ground. It’s enough to cause another shock to tear through me and this time, I can’t take it. My body wigs out, my legs going out from under me so that I slam into the ground, knees and hands first.
As I fall, I lose my grip on my phone and it hits with a clatter. I sit there for long moments, trying to absorb the agony from the shocks. In the background I can hear the faint sounds of him laughing at me through the phone line.
“You don’t actually think you’ll be able to walk away, do you?”
I scramble for the phone as night closes in around me. “Are you doing this to me? Are you making me feel this?”
“I’m not doing anything, except enjoying the show. It’s a good one.”
The police officer chooses that moment to approach. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
Pain is still ricocheting inside of me, so severe that I’m afraid I’ll vomit at any second. Still, I force myself to turn my head, to look at him. His body posture is aggressive, his hand on his gun, but his voice is concerned—like he can’t quite decide if he’s dealing with a drugged-out weirdo or a woman in the middle of a seizure.
Over the phone, I can hear him laughing again and I hit END CALL. Maybe I should have kept him on longer, tried to give my brother and Nate something to work with, but I have enough to deal with right now without keeping the bastard responsible for all of this in the mix.
“Ma’am?” The officer’s voice is more insistent. “The Capitol building is closed. It’s New Year’s Eve.”
I nod, force myself to my feet though every movement is an agony. I breathe through my mouth as I do it, long gulps of air that help combat the nausea from the pain. “I’m sorry. My heel bent and I fell.” I force my left foot out, show him the high, skinny heels I’ve been running on.
He nods, relaxes a little. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I brush my hands against my jeans, ignoring the sting on my palms. It’s nothing compared to the pain that just whipped through me. “A little banged up, but okay.”
“You can’t be here. It’s after hours. I’m not allowed to let anyone linger near the gates.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I was just hoping to get a picture of it all lit up at night. It’s so beautiful.” I hold up my camera phone. “I was here yesterday and did the tour, but it’s so much prettier at night. I just want a photograph of it for my trip to Austin scrapbook.”
He looks at me for a minute, duty warring with his need to give in to a request from an attractive woman. He’s pretty young himself, probably midtwenties, and I’m sure he’s bored sitting out here all night, especially since it’s New Year’s Eve. I force myself to smile flirtatiously and he responds with a slight grin of his own.
“I guess one or two pictures won’t hurt.”
“Thanks so much.” I turn around, make a big deal of getting the perfect photo as I inch nearer to the entrance. The closer I get, the more the pain eases, until all that’s left is the burning compulsion to get inside these gates.
“Will you take one of me?” I ask, plastering myself against the wrought iron and pasting on a smile I am far from feeling.
“Yeah, sure.” He reaches for the phone and tells me, “Say ‘cheese.’”
I do, and then pose and preen a little, cracking jokes so he’ll take a few more pictures, which he does. I’m not sure what I’m doing, except buying myself more time—and trying to get him to like me, so he won’t shoot me when he finds me hopping the fence in a little while. Which I have absolutely no doubt that I’m going to do.
Because while I don’t know much when it comes to the magic that surrounds this mess I’m involved in, I do know that I’m not going to be able to leave this place anytime soon—no matter how much I want to.
Part of me wants to just sit down in the middle of this driveway and cry because I know what’s waiting for me when I finally make my way onto the Capital grounds. There’s a body somewhere on the other side of this fence, a woman brutally murdered by the same psychopath who killed the other two. The same psychopath I was just talking to on the phone? I wonder. I think so, but I can’t prove it. I can’t prove anything, including the fact that some poor girl is inside here, just waiting to be discovered.
I think about calling Nate, telling him what I suspect. But what am I supposed to say to convince him? That I got a call from the killer telling me the girl was here? But I’m the one who called him. And I don’t have any guarantee that there is a body in there, except for the pain I can’t escape from.
I probably know just enough to indict me as an accomplice and nowhere near enough to convince Nate of my innocence. And if I tell him about the compulsions—about this weird magic unfurling inside of me—I can only imagine what will happen. I’ll get stuck in a mental institution for violent offenders and this monster, whoever he is, will end up getting away with his agenda. Whatever it is.
The cop hands me back my camera and I thank him, before turning to take a couple more pictures. I can tell the excuse is wearing thin, though, and I have no idea what I’m going to do when the officer has had enough. Dive for the fence and pray to God he doesn’t shoot me?
Surreptitiously, I dial Donovan’s number as I continue to take pictures of the Capitol. It goes straight to voice mail. Damn it, what’s the point of having all these people hassling me all the time, if none of them is around when I need them?
Because I’m out of time and choices, I take a few steps back from the gate and just as I suspected, the pain hits immediately. This time I’m prepared for it and it doesn’t take me to my knees, though it does scramble my brain for a good thirty seconds.
When I can breathe again, I try out another smile on the officer. Of course, with the pain I’m in, it’s probably more of a grimace. He smiles back a little uncertainly, and I figure the curve of my lips must be more frightening than seductive. Terrific. He probably thinks I’
m deranged. Why the hell didn’t Salima’s book open to any seduction spells when I was flipping through it last night? Or mind-wiping spells, for that matter? I could use one of those right about now. Of course, with the way my luck’s been going, I’d probably end up setting him on fire. Just the thought makes me shudder.
So no magic, then. No Donovan. No Declan. No Nate. I’m on my own. And considering I can’t leave without literally frying every nerve ending in my body, the best bet I’ve got is for this guy to discover the body himself. Too bad I don’t have a clue how to get that to happen, especially since I have no idea where the body is. She could be anywhere, including inside the Capitol building itself.
“Did you get enough photos?” the policeman asks.
“Oh, yes.” I take a couple more steps back, refusing to acknowledge the pain and confusion that comes with overriding the compulsion.
I hold my hand out to him and pray he won’t notice the way it’s trembling. “I’m Xandra, by the way.”
He takes my hand, shakes it. “I’m Brett.”
“Thanks so much for helping me out with the pictures. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem.” There’s a noise in the bushes and he steps back, hand once again on his gun. I tense, too, brace myself for goddess only knows what. Seconds later, a squirrel runs out of the bushes, a nut clutched between his little paws.
It breaks the ice between us and we both laugh, Brett harder than I, simply because he doesn’t sense the danger lurking all around us.
“So, where are you from, Xandra?” he asks. He begins walking back toward the sidewalk, escorting me away from the gates, and I have no choice but to follow.
Each step is excruciating, but sheer will has me placing one foot in front of the other—while I formulate a believable lie at the same time. “I’m from New Mexico. Santa Fe.”
“Wow, Santa Fe is beautiful.”
“It really is. But Austin’s got its own charm.”
“That it does. Are you just here for vacation?”
“Kind of. My best friend from college just got a job at Dell. She starts on the second, so I took a couple of weeks off and came down to help her move in.” I’m kind of shocked at the lies spewing forth from my lips. Who knew I had a talent for this sort of thing?