Descendants Series

by Melissa Wright

  “Brianna,” he said in an impossibly low voice.

  “Yes?” I breathed as his gaze trailed over my lips, came back slow and deliberate to linger on my eyes.

  “Is it now?”

  A confused, “What?” slipped out, too loud.

  The corner of his mouth turned up, the smallest amount, and I knew what he was asking.

  “No!” I hissed, the sound of boots on the metal grate platform causing me to grip him even tighter as I protested.

  “Good,” he whispered. He glanced at the crack in the door, smiling at my indignant expression. His hand came free to push a lock of hair behind my ear. “Because that means we’re in less trouble than I thought.”

  His words were punctuated with a series of metallic bangs, followed by shouting to, “Get on the floor.” And finally a loud, “Rhona, clear.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, ignoring the noise outside to focus on his words.

  He shrugged. “If it hasn’t happened yet, then we’re probably not going to die today.”

  “Fox, clear,” a voice overhead called.

  “Daniels, clear,” a third echoed, this one closer.

  “You can’t …” I hissed, “… that’s not how it works, Logan.”

  He stared at me in earnest. “Oh trust me, Brianna, I’m not letting it end until that vision plays out.”

  I opened my mouth to form some kind of stunned protest, but before I got the words out, Logan took a step back and the cabinet doors swung open to his team.

  A man yelled, “Black, clear. Locket, clear.”

  The one in the center—tall and thin—tilted his head toward me in greeting. “Miss Drake.”

  “I’m the locket?” I asked after a full ten seconds of silence.

  His cheeks colored and beside him the dark-haired man’s lip twitched. He nodded and cleared his throat. “Not my call, ma’am.”

  The dark-haired man elbowed him. “He wanted to call you the duck.”

  “Well, it was better than the serpent.”

  My eyes went to the third man. “Then whose idea was it?”

  I followed his gaze to Logan, whose lips drew down as he shook his head in denial. “Really, Brianna. We should go.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Return

  In the end, Logan’s team simply knocked one of the welded door frames through its jambs and away from the block wall in a single, solid piece. I didn’t mind walking out on level ground, but when we reached the gravel walkway, a fourth man—dressed in cargo pants and a loose black T-shirt—tossed Logan a set of keys. He frowned down at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You sure are hard on cars.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping a smear of grease from my arm. “I liked that one, too.”

  He smiled, and gestured toward my filthy jeans. “Don’t worry, we’ll take you back for your things.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said, tucking the folded paper tighter in my hands.

  Logan led me toward our new car, a black, unidentifiable sedan with dark tinted windows. “A hot shower and fresh clothes always makes it better.”

  I smiled. “Is that so?”

  He nodded sagely and said, “Trust me. I’m an expert on close calls.”

  I wasn’t sure whether he’d meant Morgan’s men, or the kiss.

  By the time we reached Southmont, the crinkles were pressed out of the folded papers inside my grip. I wouldn’t open them until I was back in my room. I couldn’t. But when Brendan met us at the door, ready to escort me there, I found out Logan had other plans.

  “Brianna,” Brendan said, taking no notice of Logan or his own guards, “I’m so glad to have you back. We’ve been working around the clock to tighten down all points of access on the property. No matter how stealth, there will be no more incidents, I promise you.” He reached toward me. “Let’s show you to your room.”

  “She’ll be staying in mine.”

  It was all Logan said, and as Logan took a step forward, Brendan placed a hand on his arm. Logan’s gaze went purposefully from the contact to Brendan’s eyes.

  Brendan’s jaw tightened, but he lowered the hand. “The security updates on Brianna’s room are complete. I assure you there is no risk.”

  “I’ll make that call,” Logan said. He urged me forward before calling over his shoulder, “By the way, my team will be bringing in a few of Morgan’s men.” Logan glanced at his watch. “In about fifteen minutes. I suggest you find a safe place to confine them.”

  I didn’t look back, but I could imagine the expression on Brendan’s face.

  “Logan,” I whispered, “How do you know he doesn’t have the same surveillance in your room?”

  He didn’t look at me. “Because my surveillance would tell me.”

  We came to the foot of the stairs and he turned toward me, glancing at the folded papers pressed in my hands. “Do you want me to call Emily?”

  “I’m not ready yet.” I shook my head. I’d made a habit of hiding things from Emily; I couldn’t do that now, no matter what the papers said. “I do. Just … not yet.”

  He brushed my hair aside and squeezed my shoulder. “Ellin,” he said, still looking at me, and I was momentarily confused until she stepped from behind the balustrade.

  “Mr. Black.”

  “Can you bring Brianna some fresh clothes and a bite to eat?”

  “Of course,” she answered, turning to go.

  “To my room,” Logan added.

  She disappeared into the corridor and Logan said, “Come on, Brianna, let’s get you a shower.”

  Logan’s advice had been dead-on. I’d come out of the washroom to find my own clothes, pressed and folded, waiting for me in the small mirrored room between the shower and bedroom. It felt good to be clean and barefoot, safe within the Division walls. The sandwiches were just icing on the cake.

  “Thank you,” I said over the last bite of warm bread. “You were right.”

  The bedroom was large, but it didn’t contain a table or connect to a separate sitting area the way my suites had. Instead, a spacious love seat was centered on the wall opposite a king-size four-poster bed. I slid my plate away from the edge of the coffee table and leaned back into plush cushions.

  Logan smiled. “I would never lie.” I smirked and he added, “Not to you, anyway.”

  “You’d be the first.” At his sideways glance, I sighed. “That sounded bitter, I’m sorry. It’s just really exhausting sometimes.” I pulled the folded papers from my back pocket and laid them on the side table for when I worked up the nerve to open them. I tried to listen to my instincts, to heed those quiet pushes as my mother had taught me, but sometimes it was hard to tell when something needed to wait for the right time and when my own doubts were driving the reluctance. This felt like me.

  Logan leaned closer to run a finger over the scratch on the inside of my forearm. “Climbing through the roof hatch?”

  I nodded. “It’ll be gone in a few days.”

  A thought niggled at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t quite grasp it with his fingers resting on my arm. My gaze lingered there, and then he trailed them up to slide behind my back and draw me to him. I leaned in, pressing my side against him, and rested my head on his chest as his arm wrapped around me. It was so nice to be held.

  I was “my Brianna” and “our Brianna” to Brendan and the others—since I was their prophet, all of the Seven Lines owned me. But it was different with Logan.

  It was more.

  His fingers traced over my arm, trailing gently down and back. Suddenly, I wanted to tell him. To say something that would let him know what he meant to me. When I pressed a hand to his chest to push myself up, we were face to face, and the words caught in my throat.

  His other hand came over to lie on my side as he waited for whatever I was about to say. I closed my eyes and his hand drew down my side slowly, coming back up against bare skin. His breath fell on my neck while his thumb slid across the ski
n of my stomach. When it almost reached the scar, I stiffened, and Logan’s hand froze as he mistook my reaction.

  I opened my eyes. Whatever he saw there changed his mind; his hand came free, tugging the hem of my shirt back in place. He sat up, pressed his lips to my hair before breathing, “I think I should go take that shower now.”

  My hand slid down his chest as he stood, and I watched him walk across the room to the washroom. My palm pressed flat against my stomach. I was self-conscious about my scar, but not because I was vain. It was what the wound symbolized. I was going to have to make sacrifices, and that scar stood for everything I’d have to give up.

  And that was when I knew it was time. I leaned back, drew my feet up under me, and pulled the folded pages to my lap.

  It was written in another language, but that didn’t stop the pang at seeing the familiar curves of my mother’s handwriting on the page. Her first words, the only ones that mattered, were, “I’m sorry. I love you.”

  The rest of it laid me numb.

  When Logan came out of the washroom fifteen minutes later, I had the pages spread across the coffee table, flattened and in plain view. It didn’t matter who saw them, it was a secret language; no one would be familiar with it except one of us. And then the idea of that hit me and there was a sudden lump in my throat; my fingers pressed against it.

  Logan stood in front of the table in jeans and a worn T-shirt. “Brianna?”

  I looked up at him, my shoulders drawing back, and said, “When was the last prophet of the Seven Lines alive?”

  He considered the question for a long moment. “Fourteen hundred years ago.”

  “And her line?”

  He slid a palm across his stomach. “Sky, I think. But those powers died out. It doesn’t mean the same as it used to.”

  I nodded. “Because each line could do more.” His brows drew together, not understanding where I was taking this. I stood up. “It’s time to call Emily.”

  When he drew the cell phone from his pocket, I said, “Wait. That’s not right.” The push was there. Something, some decision I’d made was wrong. I pressed a hand to my temple. “Just send her a message. Get her on the way.”

  “Are you all right?” Logan asked, and I could tell he wanted to take a step forward, to comfort me. There was a push. Again.

  “No, I’m fine. I need …” What did I need? “This prophet, do you have any information on her?”

  “It would be a fairly common file, I think. I can check downstairs. Brendan has an extensive library.”

  It won’t be there, I told myself. They would have hidden it; they would have wanted it in darkness. In the shadows. I stared down at the papers on the table before me, so thin and frail. She hadn’t written them when Morgan had captured her. She’d written them long before, maybe a hundred times over, and carried them with her for the day she’d be forced to leave them. To hide them for me to find. A shadow.

  “Please,” I said. “Anything you have on her. Anything from the time she was alive.”

  “Brianna—”

  “Now, Logan.” My fingers trembled. I squeezed them into fists. “It has to be now.”

  He nodded, giving me one long look before heading for the door. It was against his better judgment, but he would do as I asked. I thought it was probably the last time he’d trust me, once I’d told him what I’d found. The papers stared at me from the surface of the table, accusing.

  “A shadow,” I whispered. “You are a shadow.”

  A thick, thunderous boom resonated from somewhere below. The floor shifted beneath my feet, throwing me to the ground. For half a second, I thought a bomb had gone off. And then I realized it had.

  Heart racing, I scrambled to my feet and ran for the door. In the dozen steps it took me to reach the handle, my brain registered that the blast had come from across the building, somewhere beneath my old bedroom. I’d have seconds, maybe minutes, before they figured out I wasn’t there.

  They could have been after Morgan, could have come for him, but they were hitting the wrong side of the house for that. I had no idea what Morgan really knew, if he was playing with us, if his men intended to keep me alive. Shots fired somewhere in the yard as I turned the lever and the latch broke free. The door swung open behind me, plush carpet beneath my bare feet as my legs pushed as hard and fast as they could. A solid bam penetrated the hallway, too loud, too close, and I knew it was the door to my bedroom busting open. They were behind me. I wasn’t going to make it.

  My feet turned the corner of their own will, the instinct to flee having taken full control of my body, and another blast rocked through the hall. This one threw me into the wall, slamming my shoulder against drywall and something too solid, some reinforcement hidden beneath the plaster. Blackness swirled across my vision, I was in a bubble of soundlessness, yet still I ran. There was a corridor, a safe haven in the walls ahead—three yards, just a few running steps—I only had to make it.

  And then my legs dropped out from beneath me.

  My head smacked the floor with a dense thump, the fizz of soundlessness turned to ringing in my ears, and solid pain filled my skull. Gloved hands wrapped around my wrists, yanking my arms upward, and I spun, kicking my attacker solidly in the knee. It cracked and he stumbled, but I was only able to break one of my wrists free. I rolled, pulling him off balance because of his grip, and he let go, only to pin my hip with his other knee. He outweighed me by half, but I had leverage in my position on the floor.

  My free leg bent, shoving and twisting at once with all my might, and another explosion rocked the hallway. A bare hand, slick with blood, wrapped over my arm and jerked it behind me. I blinked plaster from my eyes, but the hall was filled with smoke. Gunfire erupted in the corridor behind us and a sudden point of pressure on my arm spread to raw heat. I glanced down in time to see a syringe, but it was too late. Fire tore through me, and more hands—strong and holding too tight—gathered my arms behind me to wrench me off the ground. I jerked, landing an elbow into one’s stomach, and was backhanded across the face in return.

  The last thing I felt was that distant stinging, and the resulting taste of blood, before my head lolled to the side.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Captured

  Fire pulsed through the city, scorching every last entity in its wake. The metal framework of once-tall buildings screeched as it twisted and fell, burning, and there was a roar of conflagration, but no screams could be heard. Because the people were gone. In fire. Flames.

  An inferno.

  My bottom was cold. I shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, but something was wrong. Not ready to come out of sleep, I tugged at my arms, but they wouldn’t cooperate. They were numb, achy. My head pounded. I bat my eyes open and my vision swam. There were blurry outlines on a dark wall opposite me, but they didn’t make sense. None of it belonged here. And then the bonds cutting into my wrists registered and I remembered. I’d been captured.

  The room was empty aside from a metal-framed chair, a narrow stool, and some shapeless material that hung from a hook on the wall across from me. My bare feet slid along a dirty floor as I tried to pull them under me, and I realized I was tied at the waist as well. My fingers felt blindly behind my back to find the hooks that were keeping me secured to the wall. Metal cable ran through them to the bonds that constricted my wrists and waist, keeping me from moving more than an inch or so in any direction.

  Now that I’d struggled against them, my wrists hurt worse than anything, but I knew I had taken a pretty good hit to my head and my right shoulder. My hip was a little sore, too, and my lip was puffy and raw where I’d taken a backhand from the second attacker. I wasn’t sure how bad the injuries had been to begin with, or I might have had some idea of how long I’d been tied there.

  The entire space was maybe ten by twelve, and it was dark. The only light came from thin vents lining the top of one wall. I had no notion what would happen now, if Morgan’s directive had been to capture m
e only or if other instructions had followed. If it had been the sway, whoever had put me here might not have been given further orders, and I might sit here until I starved.

  But I didn’t hope to get that lucky. Those had been Morgan’s men, not just random humans. They had been trained as his army, and they would understand that keeping me alive was paramount. I was their prophet, born of the serpent. A daughter of great power, eyes of the sea.

  I pressed my eyes closed tight against the thought. They’d had no idea. None of us had. It wasn’t a lie exactly—the sea did allude to the fates, after all, and I could see what was to come—but they’d believed we were their salvation, their return to complete power. A power they’d apparently never had. A power that they’d been allowed to use, to play with, beneath the watchful eye of a shadow.

  To them, the serpent symbolized a guardian. And I was their guardian. But the words didn’t stop there. Assassin. Dragon slayer.

  Shadow.

  The door swung open and I dropped my head, pretending to sleep. Footsteps moved across the dusty floor, crunching abandoned scraps of trash on the concrete. We were in another warehouse. A factory. Sounds echoed outside the room. There were too many of them, something wasn’t right. A boot kicked against my hip ... the sore one. I let my body flop with the shove, head hanging lifelessly forward.

  “I told you,” said one of the voices.

  “Shut up,” the man nearest me replied. “You know what Morgan said.”

  “I don’t care what he thinks,” the first muttered, “there’s no way she’s going to wake up soon. We gave her twice the lethal dose.”

  The man beside me shifted; I could feel his breath on my plaster-dusted skin. He must have been kneeling to get a closer look. “I wouldn’t let him hear you talking like that if you value your life,” he said, putting a finger under my chin to raise my face. It took everything I had not to flinch. “Besides, she’s not like the others. This one’s strong.”