by Anise Rae
“Thank you. Please believe this was all me. Don’t blame Edmund.” Bronte whispered. “He really likes you.”
Aurora stepped back. Edmund had the power to wipe her father away...to wipe her away. She put her hand over her heart as if she might hold its cracked pieces together. “You’ve misinterpreted what’s between Edmund and me.”
The door slammed open, just missing her. Edmund burst in. He glanced among the three of them. “Do you know how many bathrooms there are in this place?”
Allison bounced. “We’re friends!”
“That’s great, Al.” He replied, sincere and tolerant.
She could feel his gaze on her, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. He was involved in that false story about her father’s death. She knew it down to her last vibe. She was out of her league with these people and it didn’t matter how much she craved his touch or the shine of smile, he played games she’d never win.
Aurora stepped away and grabbed the door before it closed.
He caught her, wrapped his fingers around hers, and pulled her back in. “Overseer Wasten,” he stated. “You’re not pleased with his appointment.”
“What?” She jerked her head up to face him. For a moment she couldn’t understand his comment, her mind drowning in her father’s death. Wasten…her real secret, while her father had been the Rallises’ secret.
He narrowed his eyes. “How long has he known there was an enchantress in our Drainpipe?”
Chapter 4
He’d watched her from the stage, seen her shock as Wasten stepped up to the platform. “You could have had a say in the choice, you know. You could have been the overseer.” His enchantress kept too many secrets—Wasten was yet another. “Your power grants you celebrity status. If you want to help the Drainpipe, quit cowering in the junkyard and do something. I’ll help you.”
She straightened, stiff as a new wand, and looked away.
“Come on,” he coaxed her, gently this time, burying his own tension. He tugged her closer, holding her hand. “Why don’t you like him? What’s he done?” Ripped a fissure in the bond, perhaps?
She swallowed so hard it practically echoed around the small room. Though her lips parted, she didn’t speak and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. He’d never wished to be a mind mage so badly. “Ror, if there’s trouble brewing, let’s fix it before it boils over.”
“Don’t you prefer when things boil over?” She spoke to the wall. “Doesn’t that make the game more exciting?”
“Not when it comes to you.” He delivered the truth with more harshness than he’d intended. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bronte and Allison stir at his tone. He took a breath and lifted his hand to Aurora’s cheek, coaxing her to look at him.
She studied him, but only for a moment. “Justin Wasten is a fine choice.”
Crickets.
“As for knowing about the Drainpipe’s enchantress,” she continued, “didn’t he just start the job tonight? You already knew I was there, so he’s not violated your trust. Please don’t bother him about me. He has enough sadness in his life. He doesn’t need more stress.” With that, she spun away.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She stopped to the right of the door, her gaze bounced to Bronte and Allison before landing on him. “It’s almost midnight.”
“I’d gladly give you a ride home if your coach is about to turn into a pumpkin, though I’d dance with you even if you were dressed in rags.” He smiled at her, but her solemn expression remained.
“Midnight. It’s curfew in the Pipe.”
He’d forgotten.
Vincent burst into the restroom, perfect timing to let his enchantress slip away. Edmund gritted his teeth that he was losing her yet again. After searching for her all those months, fearing for her for when he’d found the eye, his well of patience was nothing but dust. He almost lifted his foot to pin down the tail end of her fluffy skirts. Instead, he cast a message to his personal sentry through the charmed calling card he had in his pocket.
Follow the enchantress home. Discreetly.
She was going to miss curfew in three minutes. He’d allow her this retreat, then begin the chase again in the morning.
Yes, sir.
“Where have you been?” Though Vincent got right in Bronte’s face, stooping to meet her eyes, she didn’t blink.
“Did she sneak away from you again?” Edmund asked, one ear on the conversation with his sentry, the other with Vin. “I do have a solution—”
Bronte lifted a graceful finger and pointed at him. She was one of the only mages in the world he’d let get away with that. “Don’t you dare offer him that rope again.” Her blue eyes shined with stubbornness and her red lips pursed…a pretty pout he knew his brother would remedy.
Vincent reached for his mate’s hand and leaned in closer. “Are those tears?”
Edmund frowned. He hadn’t even noticed.
Bronte lifted her chin and looked at Edmund. “I told her the truth.”
Edmund stilled. Not that truth. Surely not.
“The truth about Edmund’s power?” Vin asked, a cautious tilt to his head.
“No,” Allison sang, joining in the conversation. “You see, the enchantress is the metallist’s daughter. Bronte spilled the vibes about how he really died.”
Edmund reared back from the blow.
“Aurora believes the metallist agreed to remove the medallion as a way to commit suicide. So his death wasn’t Bronte’s fault.” Allison’s high voice faded away as she shrugged.
The metallist had been suicidal? That was yet another secret swirling around the Drainpipe. He wanted to yank the plug on every single one. Shit. He should have seen this coming the moment Aurora told him the metallist was her father. Bronte was too kind-hearted for her own good…for his good. But he couldn’t cast the blame on her. He should have told his mother to hold on to Aurora. No, he should have taken his enchantress up on stage with him and held on to her himself. He threw open the door. He needed to catch her. To explain. He had to stop her before she left.
Vincent planted his hand in the middle of Edmund’s chest and smacked him to a halt. “You brought the metallist’s daughter near my wife? What the fuck were you thinking?” he roared. He wrenched both hands in Edmund’s jacket, jerking him closer. “Or were you thinking at all?”
Edmund put his arm up to plow his twin into the wall. “Fuck off. I need to stop her.”
Bronte ducked into the middle, her body between Vin’s arms. The three of them hit the wall, a triple-decker sandwich. Edmund stifled the instinct to cast a spell to cushion her from the impact. That would do nothing but hurt her. He steadied her, but she paid no attention.
“Vincent, let him go. Now.” Bronte faced her mate, her words tight. “I brought this on us. Not him. I’m tired of feeling guilty about that day. I’m sick of dreaming about it. After what she told me….” Her voice broke. “I can let this go now. Somehow. I can figure out how to let it go.”
Edmund didn’t need to see her face or hear her sad voice to know the tears were back. All he needed was to see the anguish on his brother’s face. And, damn it, he felt the same.
“I told her everything. It just came out.” Bronte revealed the bathroom saga. By the end of her story, she’d twined Vincent around her barely-there vibes. Happened all the time. She cupped her mate’s face. “I love you. I’m so lucky to have you. Edmund deserves to get lucky, too.”
Damn straight.
Vin looked up at him and spelled his word to Edmund’s ear. Make sure your ‘getting lucky’ doesn’t come back to haunt us. He gathered his mate in his arms. “All right, love.”
Family disaster averted, Edmund sprinted out of the bathroom without a good-bye.
Stop her. He sent the message to his sentry.
She’s in her car. Turning south on Front Street. I can spell her car engine off.
Fuck. She must have run out of here, but shutti
ng down her car with a spell was too harsh.
Then just follow her. Find out where she lives. And tell the valet to get my car ready.
He re-entered the ballroom. Two steps in and he was swarmed with people—family friends, prominent businessmen, visiting founders. Everyone wanted to know about her. An invading army of four hundred people in their best dress halted his charge. He couldn’t mow them down without revealing his weak move: he’d lost her. Temporarily. His jaw twitched through the next hour as he gave the excuse he’d invented for her absence: an important matter in the Drainpipe required her presence. She impressed them all with her caring heart for the downtrodden Pipers.
He witnessed a few mages breaking off bits of Aurora’s decorations and secreting them in pockets and purses, ill-gotten mementos of an evening spent in an enchantress’s presence, however briefly.
It dragged without her. By now, she’d be in bed asleep, red hair spilling over her pillow, her body tucked beneath warm blankets. He envied those blankets.
Finally, an empty space opened between him and the ballroom’s exit. He attacked and pushed out the door. One step beyond and a sear of lightening struck his gut. He stumbled, bending at the sudden pain. His enemy had just broken another fissure in the territory’s bond.
He hobbled through the lobby, clutching his gut until a few deep breaths eased the sharp ache and he could move freely again. Stepping outside, he jogged to his car. The valet waited with it, thanks to Edmund’s sentry. He slipped in. So much for driving straight to her house. He had another stop first, finding this new fissure.
Jerking the wheel of the sleek Donninger, he sped down the road, tracking the fissure with the ache in his soul as his compass. The pain increased with every rotation of the car’s wheels. One left turn and then another until he was heading south down Front Street. More than a dozen blocks later, he crossed into the Drainpipe. Again.
Sir, she turned into the junkyard. His sentry spelled the words through the calling card. I’m at the entrance with a dozen gang members.
Lovely. His car jerked down the road as his vibes jumped in frustration. One dance. That’s all he’d had. And now she was back in her hidey-hole. He should have kissed her right there in the middle of the ballroom. If he’d kissed her, tasted her, just one more time, he might not be drowning among tonight’s disasters. He might have been able to cling to some sparkle of her light.
Go home. Even his spelled words had a frustrated tone. I’ll take it from here.
Uh, sir…
Phelps, go home. I promise I won’t take on twelve gang members by myself.
Not tonight at least.
He approached Whittier, the street that led to her shop, right about where his sentry was. The first fissure still sat there. The pain in his gut told him that, but this other one...hell, this hurt…it was farther down the road. Thank the goddess this second fissure wasn’t so close to her.
He passed by the shuttered businesses and sleeping houses until the ache tugged him hard to the left at a house that had been converted into a gravestone shop.
He guided his car to the end of the short driveway. No parking lot, after all, the carver wouldn’t have too many customers at once. Hopefully. As he pulled his vibes from the engine to shut off the car, a shrill ring tore through the interior. He jumped even as he recognized the sound. The black landline sat in the passenger seat. How did she do that?
He jerked the receiver to his ear. “Ma’am.” His tone was all wrong.
“There’s another one!” the High Councilor screeched. “Where?”
Using his mage sense, he could see the small fissure hovering in the backyard. His explanation was met with a long silence.
“Hmm, what game is this?”
From her thoughtful tone, he wasn’t sure if her question needed an answer or if she was merely thinking aloud. He played it safe and answered truthfully. “I know not, lady.”
She grunted. “I see.” An oracle’s eyes saw much more than the present. “We won’t win this if you’re on your own. You need help, Edmund Rallis. Therefore, I amend the vow. Tell no one except your new partner. I’ll see you both tomorrow at three-quarters morning at the portal. Though let’s keep that part a surprise. I do love surprising you people.” A soft click disconnected them.
He replaced the receiver, looking up at the rearview mirror to see Vincent’s truck pull in behind him. His new partner had arrived.
Edmund exited the car, slamming the door shut, but Vin deflected the bang before it could sound. The stoic lord of the army was defending the neighborhood’s quiet and the people’s right to a good sleep, like the caring leader he was.
Edmund halted in the crumbling driveway, wondering, for an unpleasantly introspective moment...did he care about the people? With a quick thought, he decided it was the wrong question to ask. He cared. The problem was he didn’t need to care. Most mages of Rallis lived a nice life. What could he offer them? His dark power was unacceptable and the territory would be better off without it.
“Bronte’s worried about you,” Vin said. “She thought you might want to talk. I disagreed.” Vincent turned to stare at the yard behind the house. Gravestones-to-be were tumbled about the wintering grass, the fissure in between the nearest two. “Guess she was right. What the hell is that?”
“It’s a fi—” The words stuck, choking him like a fist all over again. He bent over, hands on knees, and tried to cough through it, but nothing happened. Experience softened his panic. This would end. It wouldn’t take the Heimlich either. Thank the cursed consort Vincent didn’t try. Edmund’s ribs were still sore from the last time.
When the vow relented, his hoarse gasp might have woken the neighborhood except Vin deflected that sound, too. A thorough guy. Too bad Vin wasn’t his promised partner. That only left one other reasonable possibility…Aurora. After all, she could stop a destruere’s spell, though that didn’t mean she could repair a broken bond.
He closed his eyes and exhaled through clenched teeth. The last thing he wanted was his enchantress hanging around the High Councilor when she wasn’t yet vowed to Rallis. The High Councilor had a bad habit of confiscating the most powerful mages until freedom was no longer part of their lives. A loyalty vow’s power would prevent them from taking her. Until then, she had no official protection. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and never let go.
“Go home.” He pushed the words through his hoarse throat. “I’ve got this.”
His brother walked toward the pale stones. Naturally, the general wasn’t leaving. He stopped in front of the fissure.
Edmund rubbed the bridge of his nose with a finger, seeking a plan to get rid of his brother but coming up blank. He might have asked for help from the goddess, but this was all the High Councilor’s doing, and she sure as frozen hells wasn’t open to supplication.
He circled around the stones that waited for death and stopped on the opposite side of the fissure. The rip was small, about an inch long, hovering off the ground at knee-level. To his physical eye, it blended seamlessly with its surroundings. To his mage sense, it was an ugly, chaotic ripple but only if he focused.
Vin crouched down, his eyes hard. “To rip the bond is a sacrilege.”
Edmund was afraid to nod much less speak.
The bond was more complicated than a mere spell. It was a divine link between the family, the land, and its people. The fuel for the bond came from the goddess herself. It flowed from the mark of power she’d placed on their land three centuries ago. Each founding family had their own mark to fuel their individual territory’s bonds.
In Edmund’s opinion, Bronte had found the best way to explain it. She’d once compared the bond to a symphony’s conductor, directing the energy…the music…that played throughout the territory and ensuring it vibed in harmony. Vincent had provided a dose of realism with his tacked-on explanation that if that were the case then the mark was the rich benefactress that funded the conductor and his music
ians in the first place. Without her, there’d be no music at all.
Vin straightened. “Did you do this?”
Edmund had known the accusation was coming, but that didn’t stop the hurt.
“A destruere mage is the only power capable of this.” Vin held the conversation by himself.
Unable to deny or confirm, or curse the fucking vibes out of his brother for a complete lack of faith, Edmund stood in silence. Maybe Vin didn’t mean it. Maybe it was how he worked—start with the worse possible scenario then move backward to less devastating possibilities. It was a good characteristic for a man charged with protecting the entire Republic.
But in this case, Vin hadn’t gone far enough on the scale of worst.
“Unless there’s another destruere,” Vincent stated.
Smart man, his brother.
“I’ll get a team here and block it off.”
Strike that smart part. Tell no one, the High Councilor had said. And Vin wanted to bring in the army.
Pressure built in his chest, needing to stop this brotherly beast as Vin continued to outline his plan, but the damn vow sealed him shut like a tight lid on a boiling potions pot. He took a hard breath and popped it off. “No!” Goddess, he probably woke the ’hood with that shout, but at least he wasn’t on all fours choking up his bowels.
Without a tick or twitch or even a hint of a frown, Vin asked, “Then how can I help?”
Edmund might have flung his arms around his brother at the question. “You can’t.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Don’t you have to go home? Didn’t being at the damn ball wear out your sense or something?”
His brother didn’t answer right away. Night’s silence swirled around them, tucking them in tight for this heart-to-heart over unformed tombstones. Edmund forced himself to stay still under Vin’s studying glare.
“Not with Bronte around. I’ve watched you lately, Mundie. You spend more time in the attic than ever. That mask you wear is getting thicker and thicker until I’m not sure you even know who you are anymore.”