Descendants Series

by Melissa Wright

  A four-poster bed draped with sheers centered the large, windowless room. Two dressers lined the far walls, and a desk and reading chair sat near the entrance. Gesturing for me to stay there, Logan crossed to the smaller of the dressers and worked it across the thick silver-gray carpeting until it was clear of the wall by several feet. The second dresser, a low, six-drawer antique model that looked to weigh about five hundred pounds, didn’t slide so easily across the pile. I bit my lip as he labored against it. It was unsettling how much I enjoyed watching that man move furniture.

  When both dressers were clear of the wall, he drew a folding knife from his pocket and cut a long strip of carpet free. He tucked the loose end of it under a knee and dug at the wood flooring beneath with the knife to reveal a pair of dark metal fasteners. I had to stand on the tip of my toes and crane my neck to see how he released the plank that revealed the cubby hole.

  He glanced up at me as he removed a few small containers, and I dropped my heels back flat. He took them to the desk and I moved to stand beside him as he opened the first case and unrolled a canvas on the dark glossed wood before us.

  My hand went to my chest, air suddenly hard to come by. I looked at Logan, unsure, and his solemn nod confirmed the parchment’s authenticity.

  I was seeing the prophecy.

  I reached out, knowing I shouldn’t touch the ancient material, but unable to resist being closer. As my hand hovered above the fine script, so different from those I’d been studying for the last days, I was overtaken by a giddy, child-like excitement. I glanced at Logan, uncaring that I had flushed cheeks and a too-wide grin, and he smiled back at me.

  “Go ahead and take a look,” he said. “I’m going to close things up a bit.”

  He tucked a pair of thin white gloves into my hand and returned to the space beneath the flooring.

  I meant to thank him, but wasn’t sure I’d said the words out loud. As I tugged the gloves on, I glanced about the room, but there were no cameras in the bedrooms of the Division houses. No one was watching. No one would see my gloved fingers tracing the worn edge of a thousand-year-old document.

  But the moment they contacted parchment, the trembling in my hands ceased. It was real. All of it. The visions, the prophecy, the coming destruction. Too real to deny anymore. There was no more room for doubt. No more uncertainty or possibilities.

  This was it.

  These words were for me. I was the prophet. It was all there was.

  Vaguely aware of Logan’s movements across the room, I recited the words in the old tongue, the words I’d known by heart before the first time they’d even come to me through a revelation. It took several minutes, but they seemed to move at a drawn-out pace, each one cementing themselves once more in my consciousness. The gravity of them had changed, the import shifting from burden to substance. Power. These would be the words that saved us.

  As I came to the end, I realized Logan was standing behind me. I took a deep breath, and for the first time in a very long while, it didn’t ache.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, sliding off the gloves as I turned to Logan. He noticed the change in me, I could see that, but before he had a chance to speak, his phone vibrated.

  He pulled the device from his pocket, pressed two buttons, and tucked it back away. “Looks like we’ll have to finish this up later.” He moved past me to roll the prophecy into a tube, and placed it and a few other documents in a satchel before looping the strap over his shoulder. “Ready?” he asked.

  I was. I didn’t know what for, exactly, but there was no doubt left in my answer.

  We exited the room to turn the opposite direction we’d come in, and Logan led me by the elbow at an even faster pace, not stopping to round the corners before me. I glanced behind us, but the halls were empty. He took us down a set of narrow stairs, pausing only briefly to check the screen of his phone. From my vantage point one step above him, I saw not a text message, but a small red dot on a blackened grid. Like a tracking signal.

  “Is that Brendan?” I hissed.

  He glanced at me, surprised, and the corner of his mouth drew back, despite an obvious effort to still it. He turned his upper body toward me as he watched me, his face inches from mine; the step made us closer to the same height.

  “Brianna,” he said, and I thought he was going to tell me his reasons, explain why it was necessary. I was fully prepared to tell him I understood and it didn’t matter, until his voice dropped to a whisper. “Is it now?”

  My breath caught in my throat. Oh God, is he serious? His eyes never left mine, and all I could think was that he was thinking of kissing me, that he was asking because it had crossed his mind to do so right then. The image of that kiss from my visions came swiftly to me, and I fought hard to not focus on it.

  Though I was sure he’d see the flush that colored my skin, Logan didn’t budge, only waited for my answer.

  I swallowed hard. “No.”

  His gaze stayed on me one full second more before he made a gesture that might have been a nod and turned to take the last few steps.

  We’d been turning the corner three blocks from the property when we passed a line of dark, expensive looking cars. I’d glanced at Logan, but he’d not acknowledged the event, simply watching the road as he took the scenic route to Council. To Aern and Emily.

  My sister gave me a sad, half-smile and I knew Aern had told her we’d seen the prophecy. She must have thought it would upset me, bring up the painful memories of our mother, but it hadn’t.

  Aern released his grip on Logan’s forearm and moved to touch my shoulder. “How are you, Brianna?”

  It was clear there was more to his question than a simple inquiry about my health, but I let it slip this time. “I’m good, Aern.” I let my gaze run over his face, but there didn’t appear to be much sign of the stress he’d been under to put things back in order. I wondered if that had something to do with his bond to Emily. “How are you?”

  He smiled, unconsciously moving toward her as he dropped his arm. “I haven’t had a moment to think about it.” He glanced at his watch. “We let the kitchen staff go early today, they’re going to start the upgrades on those rooms this afternoon, but we’ve still got some time to whip up a little lunch.”

  Emily raised her brows when his gaze met hers. “Don’t look at me, Brianna’s the cook.”

  Logan stiffened at her comment, and I bit my lip as I glanced over at him, knowing he was thinking of the meals he’d stumbled through as I watched. “Actually,” I said, “just a sandwich would be fine.”

  Emily smiled. “I can do sandwiches.”

  Logan seemed to gather himself. “Brianna didn’t get a chance to look through all the documents,” he explained, “so we’ll get started on that.” He handed the container that held the prophecy to Aern. “For the Seven.”

  “For the Seven,” Aern repeated.

  It was oddly formal in the midst of our conversation about lunch, and the slight flinch in Emily’s expression made it clear that she’d not quite acclimated to their role at the head of Council. But Aern’s hand found the small of her back, and it was as if, suddenly, none of that mattered to either of them.

  I watched them go, leaving us to our business. To find the clue that would lead them away from the path in my visions. When I turned to get the documents from Logan, he narrowed one eye at me. “Brianna’s the cook, huh?”

  I laughed, taking the proffered bag without giving him the unpleasant details of Emily’s culinary disasters and my subsequent education in the matter. I removed a leather-bound journal from one of the containers, its binding tattered and peeling, and laid it carefully on the table before me. Logan pulled up a chair, and when Emily returned with food, they talked idly about security updates and what was left of the remodeling work.

  I faded in and out of their conversation while I read, searching the old documents and notes for any details that could help. It still surprised me how easily Aern had fit into Emily’s life, how central
he’d become so quickly. She’d kept to herself more often than not, and I knew it wasn’t simply the prophecy or their bond that connected them. Emily had a way of making people trust her. What I didn’t know, was if she could be so comfortable with Logan because Aern had faith in him, or if he shared his life-long friend’s talent as well. Because Aern also had that ability to make people trust him.

  I remembered the first day I’d met Aern, when he’d come for me the way my mother had said he would. He’d been fully prepared to have to convince me, to take me with him by any means necessary. But it didn’t come to that, because I’d known. I hadn’t let on to Aern or the Division, not everything at least, but I had known I’d no other choice. The visions had gotten stronger, warning me.

  I’d had to leave Emily, give her every chance I could to keep her out of Morgan’s hands. Even Aern hadn’t known about her then, because there was only one chain of events that wouldn’t end badly.

  I placed a hand absently on the scar on my stomach. Well, not too badly, I thought. But that hadn’t been his fault. That was Morgan. Aern had taken great care to keep me safe. And whether I’d had the visions or not, I would have trusted him. I was almost sure of it.

  When I realized the room had fallen silent, I glanced over at Emily and Logan to find them watching me, both wearing some mixture of concern and curiosity. I dropped the hand I’d been holding to my midriff instantly. Aern walked into the room at the same moment and I cringed, hating that they were going to ask about my injury with him in earshot.

  But the buzz of Logan’s cell phone saved me.

  “That would be Brendan,” Aern said. “He’s already called me.” Aern shared a look with Logan before his eyes came to mine. “He seems to think you’re being reckless with our Brianna.”

  Emily shifted, and I knew if Brendan were here, she’d give him a piece of her mind.

  “He’d like to have her back at Southmont,” Aern continued. “Under his protection.”

  Emily glanced at Logan. “Well, I guess you’re doing something right.”

  “Brendan isn’t that hard to hide from,” Logan said after a pause. “It’s easy to deceive a man who thinks he’s above it.”

  Logan’s gaze didn’t travel back to Aern’s, and I could see that there was some unspoken message between them, something purposefully left out. It only took a moment to realize what it was—if Logan didn’t have me at one of the Division properties and Council wasn’t yet prepared, then where were we?

  When my eyes came back to Aern, he changed the subject. “So, any luck?”

  I had all but forgotten the book beneath my fingers. “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

  He nodded. “There were a few things we found among Morgan’s belongings. You’re welcome to look at those as well.”

  “That would be great,” I answered.

  Emily slid her chair back to stand. “I’ll take her now.” She glanced at Aern. “If it’s safe.”

  “Yes,” he said, barely managing to mask his relief that she was finally verifying her safety before making a move. But I had a pretty good idea she’d been checking for me, not her. As far as Emily was concerned, chosen or no, she was still my protector.

  Chapter Ten

  Discovery

  I followed Emily into a small office off the main library. The library was different than the archive, not only in its reading material, but in its openness and warmth. The room was flooded with sunlight from three large windows, the bookshelves only shaded by a pair of bright patterned curtains on either end. The furniture was pastel and, by all appearances, soft, scattered with an eclectic but somehow balanced collection of pillows that made me want to curl up there for the rest of the afternoon. So I was a bit snow-blind when Emily closed the door on the tiny, dark room where Morgan’s things were stored.

  She moved two large boxes from the floor onto the polished black desk. “Most of it got thrown out, but there were a few things we thought might be of some importance,” Emily explained.

  I stepped forward, shifting a couple of notebooks on top of the pile aside. “You’ve already looked through it, then?”

  “Not really,” she said. “Aern and I pulled this stuff from Morgan’s office and the other box was gathered from his private rooms.” She waved vaguely at the box in question before sliding the chair out of her way to stand beside me. “We didn’t take much time examining it. It was pretty creepy, all in all.”

  I flipped open a hardcover journal, feeling a spasm of revolt that nearly had me throwing it back down at the words scribbled in Morgan’s hand.

  Emily leaned over my shoulder, peering at the text that spelled out our own names in hurried, uncontrolled script. “Yep. Like that.”

  I forced myself to continue through the pages, seemingly random notes and numbers interposed with quotes from the prophecy, all in more than a few different languages. And the word dragon. Over and over.

  “Blood of the Dragon,” I mumbled in Latin, not entirely meaning to, and Emily ran a hand over her bare arm.

  “Well, this is fun,” she said. Using a pencil to pull a silk blindfold from the box of personal belongings, she tossed it toward the far corner of the desk with a stifled gag.

  I laid the journal aside and drew out another. “Didn’t he have a cell phone or something? A planner his assistant kept?”

  Emily nodded. “We can’t find anything digital. My guess, they’re with said assistant and he’s still out there. Protecting it.”

  “I should have waited,” I said. “I should have come with him here, in the center of it all—”

  “Back to his lair?” Emily interrupted, holding up a set of black satin wrist straps as she did so.

  I felt my face draw up. “Yes. Back to his lair. At least that way I’d have had the chance to find out more, maybe to reverse the sway on everyone.”

  “Please,” Emily said while flinging the satin onto her pile, “alone with Morgan was the last place you needed to be.” She reached into the box with her pencil once more, grimacing at a second pair of silken restraints.

  I stared at her. “Why did Aern keep that?”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured, “but we’re definitely going to have a talk about it.” She tossed the material to the side, and it landed under the dim light of a desk lamp.

  “Wait,” I said, leaning forward over the boxes. “Is that blood?”

  She leaned closer, the look on her face confirming my suspicion. “That would explain it,” she said, her gaze slowly going over the other items lying in the box. She held up the pencil, gingerly pointing toward a black satin drawstring bag. “So, what do you suppose is in there?”

  “You’re the one with the pencil,” I offered.

  “Thanks,” she muttered. She picked up a second pencil and held them chopstick style to loosen the string while holding the bag with the barest possible grip of thumb and forefinger.

  For a moment, she looked relieved, and then briefly confused. It didn’t take long to work itself out in her head, and the instant she realized what she was seeing, she looked sick.

  She was frozen, hand unable to release the horror it held.

  “What is it?” I asked, more stunned than concerned. Whatever it was couldn’t hurt us. It was just a box of junk. The real danger—Morgan—was locked away.

  She opened her mouth in a choked breath, but no words followed.

  “Emily,” I started, but fell silent when I’d moved enough to see the contents for myself.

  Each of her reactions made sense then, and my own thoughts followed the same line. But when I finally made it to disgust, I didn’t freeze. Instead, my hand reached out of its own accord, unable to keep from grasping that one last piece of her, even with the awfulness that it signified.

  A small shudder escaped Emily when I removed the lock of hair from the bag to lay it across the fingers of my open hand. It was so familiar, so perfect ... and so utterly horrible. It was the same soft texture I’d known as a child and I had to re
sist the urge to bring it closer to my face, to see if it still held her scent. It was a warm chestnut color with the faintest blonde streaks, healthy even as it lay disconnected in my hand. There was no question who the lock of hair belonged to.

  And that was what made it wrong.

  My fist closed over the bundled strands. Morgan had a section of our mother’s hair. He’d thought she was the chosen and he’d kept this with him, his prize. Terrible images of him leisurely opening the black satin bag while he stood in his room, pressing the lock of hair to his face, inhaling my mother’s scent, tore through me, but they weren’t visions. They weren’t prophecy. They were simply a product of my imagination, too vivid and too real.

  I closed my eyes tight, forcing them away.

  Beside me, Emily pressed her fingers to the base of her throat. It was the only movement in a now still room. I opened my eyes, bringing the fisted hand to my front jeans pocket. It was not the best option to carry a bundle of hair, but I didn’t want any part of it touching Morgan’s things. Not even an envelope. I would put it some place safe later.

  I stared into the box as Emily silently resumed our search. Eventually, I too continued the sorting, but neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say as we stood side by side. No words except the awfulness of what that lock of hair signified. Morgan had trapped our mother, used her to release powers that could end the world. And she had taken her own life to save us. To save everyone.

  A long while later, when Emily’s box was empty, she dropped it onto the floor beside the desk and unceremoniously shoved the discard pile over the edge to land inside. She’d only saved a small notebook and a ledger, and I was nearly to the bottom of my own with no more than three journals, and a few random receipts and papers to show for it.