Ascension Series Boxset: Books 1 - 3

by Laura Hall

He shrugged a shoulder. “Nothing. You showed up before he had the opportunity to ask.”

  Turning my head, I gazed down into the club at the sea of sweaty, gyrating bodies. “Something isn’t gelling. Gretchen was a cipher. What would this power-enhancing drug have done for her? She was already immune to supernaturals. Immunity is immunity, right?”

  “Interesting question.”

  I smirked. “You just don’t want to say ‘I don’t know’ again.” I swore I could feel the warmth of his genuine smile, but when I looked at him, his expression was carefully blank. “Are you going to, uh, stay around?”

  Smooth, Fiona.

  After a significant pause, he asked softly, “Do you want me to?”

  The door behind me opened. Katrina asked, “Am I interrupting?” Not a second too late, either, because I had no idea how to answer Connor’s question. Or rather, the answer was along the lines of Take me home, which wouldn’t benefit either of us.

  Connor’s eyes slowly left me, but not before I saw the heat my thought had generated. “No, Katrina. Fiona and I were discussing the case. She’ll bring you up to speed.” He stood gracefully. “Good night, ladies.”

  Katrina nodded. “Thank you, sir, good night.”

  I didn’t say anything, only watched him walk away, wondering when the day would come that I’d stop him.

  Thirteen

  I stood under a vivid blue sky, my bare toes sinking into moist earth. All around me were flowers. Thousands of them, gold and fuchsia, with delicate green stalks and tiny, glistening leaves. In the distance, snowcapped mountain ranges met in a high pass, dug by a glacier centuries ago. Somewhere to the west was a fast-moving river I could hear but not see; near it, smoke from several chimneys rose in slender white columns.

  Home.

  A cool breeze blew at my back, bringing tendrils of dark hair around my neck. I filled my lungs with the crisp spring air, lifting my face to the cloud-strewn sky.

  The wind turned, and as it did I heard voices singing in harmony. Beloved ones. My husband and his two brothers, back from hunting. Turning, I trained my gaze on the place they would appear, where the road leading to our village met the thick forest’s edge.

  Two of the men wouldn’t notice me here, watching for them.

  One would.

  Three figures, similar in height and build, breached the tree line. My husband, the middle son, had the loudest voice and, I thought, the purest. He was grinning gaily, likely altering the lyrics of the folksong to a more ribald version. From my vantage point, I could hear the tune but very few words.

  The sight of him, his energy and goodwill, made me smile. An arranged marriage, I still knew I was lucky. He didn’t beat me and was almost always kind. He also spent most nights with his mistress, leaving me in peace.

  The youngest son, just recently become a man, walked in the middle. His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment and strong drink, plied upon him by his brothers while hunting. Every few steps he’d break harmony to laugh at whatever verse the men were singing.

  And then there was the eldest.

  I knew every line of his figure by heart. Each step he took was music to a song only I could sing. Only I could hear. Joy pervaded my soul at the sight of him, but sadness quickly clouded it.

  He didn't know the news, yet. It had just been announced at lunch. An arrangement had been made, a suitably rich wife for him found.

  We lived in a dream that was ending, he and I. And to compound the tragedy, my monthly blood was late. The babe, without doubt, was his.

  Just as the first tears fell to my cheeks, he turned his head and saw me.

  The ground shuddered and the world dimmed. Birds exploded from the forest canopy by the hundreds, drawing my gaze overhead just as the sun was eclipsed by the moon. The sky darkened to rust, staining the flowers, the mountains.

  Searing pain cascaded down my arms, no longer pale but coated with slick blood. Pouring from deep slashes in my forearms, it overflowed my cupped palms. Dripped steadily onto the ground.

  The flowers around me turned black and withered to ash. I watched, frozen with horror, as the circle of destruction widened in a cataclysmic wave, tearing toward the forest and village, killing everything in its path.

  A voice spoke from behind me, spectral and terrible with fury, “You shouldn’t be here.”

  I screamed, and screamed . . .

  . . . and woke tangled in sweat-soaked sheets in Mal’s guest bedroom. Before I could even begin to process what had just happened, the door slammed open. My uncle, in a T-shirt and pajama pants, flipped on the overhead light, then raced to the bed and grabbed my shoulders.

  He hollered, “Fiona! Fiona, stop!”

  I was still screaming.

  I heaved air into my lungs, swallowing my cries with every breath. Seconds or minutes later, reality reasserted itself. I was safe. Not dying. Not in that bloody field watching everything I loved be destroyed.

  It had felt so real. So fucking real.

  “Okay now?” asked Mal, his face pinched and pale.

  “Yes,” I gasped, pushing wet hair from my face. My throat felt scoured raw. “I’m sorry. What time is it?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Almost four.”

  Relief made me sag against the headboard. I didn’t have to go back to sleep—not that I planned on sleeping ever again.

  I left the apartment fifteen minutes later, dressed in worn sneakers and running clothes. I ran in the predawn darkness, past winking streetlights, sleeping homeless, and barred storefronts.

  I ran until light filled the sky and the streets grew clogged with traffic. Until the dream loosed its grip on my heart and mind. Until I convinced myself that the face of the man—eldest brother of three—and the voice at the dream’s end hadn’t both belonged to Connor.

  Fourteen

  I spent the first half of the day in front of Mal’s computer, doing internet searches for Lodestone, Philosopher’s Stone, and black diamonds. Most results were typical, disorganized information dumps of general historical facts mixed with myth and conjecture. There was precious little of use, but three hours in I stumbled across an article written by a mage and geologist named Jesper Valcourt.

  Valcourt was convinced the Lodestone had resurfaced in the United States some ten years past—he’d felt it—and was currently being tested by the government for use in chemical warfare. His theory was that under the right circumstances, with the right spells, the stone would secrete an elixir. This golden liquid could then be dehydrated into a powder, the properties of which were highly speculative and invariably threatening. He didn’t say outright that it might be mass produced as an illegal drug, but the implication was there.

  Government conspiracy theory aside, the article was well written. It was clear Valcourt had extensive knowledge of all legends pertaining to the Lodestone. At the bottom of the article was his physical address at the Celestine Institute in Denver, Colorado, along with his private email. I sent him a quick note requesting a phone call and left my number.

  After a long overdue shower and a bite of lunch, I borrowed Mal’s car and headed downtown to LAPD headquarters. Wearing new clothes purchased with Katrina’s guidance, I felt relatively anonymous walking inside. That is until I showed my ID badge at the security checkpoint, and the Emerald mage stationed there began to visibly sweat. She scanned me with a small wand for weapons, her hand shaking and her wide eyes confirming what we both knew: I didn’t need any.

  “Can I direct you somewhere, Ms., er, Elemental?” she stammered.

  “Records, please.”

  She nodded, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “Subbasement One. Elevators are to the right.”

  “Thank you,” I said and headed that way, but not before hearing her pick up a telephone and tell someone I was here.

  I made it into an empty elevator and down a level without trouble. Subbasement One was likewise unoccupied except for a tired Amber mage at a reception desk. He didn’t recognize me and
let me pass with only a cursory glance at my badge.

  “Wait for the beep,” he said as I approached a thick steel door. The flashing red light over the doorframe went green, and the beep sounded. Locks thumped, and a moment later the door slid open.

  Glimpsing the cavernous, windowless room beyond, claustrophobia trickled down my spine. I glanced back at the clerk. “How do I get out?”

  He frowned and said curtly, “Ring the buzzer.”

  “Okay. Sure. Thanks.”

  He snorted and turned his attention back to his magazine.

  Firmly putting my fear of confinement out of mind, I spent the next two hours at the small computer just inside the door, searching the last decade for relevant cases. I quickly learned that suspicious circumstances and violent mage weren’t specific enough search cues.

  Hundreds of case summaries later, I had a list of six that met my criteria. Two missing mages whose bodies showed up weeks later, their tox screens showing an unidentified substance. Both were ruled suicides by self-inflicted gunshot wounds, the unknown substance written off as irrelevant to the deaths.

  I found three violent episodes involving lower level mages who had inexplicable leaps up the power scale. And one file, the most recent, from three months ago. A public disturbance charge. The arresting officer’s summary included the line, Suspect raving about a magical stone.

  It took me another half hour to find the right aisles and shelves and pull the hardcopies of the case notes. All the while, I cursed whoever had decided it wasn’t worth the taxpayer’s money to transfer the full files to the server.

  I’d just spread the first file open on a rickety metal table when the red light on the door flashed green. It opened on Katrina, who held up large to-go cups of coffee.

  “Special delivery,” she said brightly.

  “I love you,” I said, gratefully accepting the drink.

  At my insistence, she redid the search on the computer in the event I missed something. She found two more potentially linked cases, this time with shifters who went suddenly rouge, splitting from their packs and wreaking havoc in their neighborhoods.

  After an hour of reading, comparing files, and various phone calls on Katrina’s end, we took a break.

  “The Prime’s right,” Katrina said soberly, “it’s got to be a designer drug. That security guy at Clover, Gunnar, said he thought the women had been acting different lately, bringing less people to their weekend parties. He remembers a man with them a lot before they stopped coming. One of those slick business types, with a thousand-dollar suit and flashy watch.” She sighed. “I’ve got Gunnar coming down here later with the security footage. It’s a long shot, but maybe we can ID this man.”

  “What about the drug itself? Anything?”

  “Last word from the ME is he’s still running tests, but thanks to you finding these other cases, it’s now priority one at the lab.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “We need to find Daphne.”

  “Ramirez is on it. He convinced Banks to report his daughter missing. Banks also pulled some strings and got on television this morning, offering a reward for information. The precinct is already being flooded with calls. Most of them will be bogus, obviously, but it only takes one.”

  I pulled the photograph of the women from beneath my current case file. I’d been trying periodically all morning to track Sabrina, Tiffany, or Daphne. Not surprisingly, the first two were blank spots; because I hadn’t met them, I simply didn’t have enough to go on.

  Daphne was another story. I could sense her, but only vaguely. No matter how hard I concentrated on her—personality, mannerisms, looks—I couldn’t enhance the read. She was still near, presumably in the city, but that’s all I could glean. And it wasn’t a matter of something or someone blocking her location, as Delilah had blocked herself and my dad last year. It was almost as though Daphne herself was somehow indistinct. I really hoped it didn’t mean she was injured. Or dying.

  Lack of knowledge about my tracking ability was at the forefront of my thoughts. As I saw it, if I wanted to find Daphne myself, only one avenue was open.

  “Still the same?” asked Katrina.

  I nodded, then dropped the photograph and stood to stretch. “I need to make a phone call.”

  Of a sort.

  Call my name thrice.

  Damn Fae, I couldn’t get away from them.

  Fifteen

  The women’s restroom in the basement of LAPD headquarters wasn’t an ideal location for a meeting with a Fae, but it was the closest place that would afford me some privacy. Dingy and dim, it probably hadn’t seen bleach in years.

  I wasn’t overly concerned with Lucian’s sensibilities, but I was concerned that he’d want a deal in trade for whatever help he could offer. I told myself the price would be worth it, that the lives of three women were more important than my pride.

  Trying not to feel ridiculous, I took a breath and began, “Lucian Ó Cléirigh. Lucian Ó Cléirigh. Lucian—”

  The bathroom door swung open, cracking against a metal stall.

  Connor snapped, “Do not call for him.”

  Having stumbled into the far wall with fright, I slowly straightened and tugged my blouse back into place. Clenching my teeth, I ground out, “I don’t have a choice. How on earth did you know what I was doing?”

  He said nothing.

  I blanched. “The bond doesn’t mute both ways, does it? You still know everything I’m doing and feeling?”

  His eyes, black with his anger, lightened to emerald. Gradually, he relaxed his stance, hand sliding from the door, arms crossing over his chest. Even under fluorescents, he looked crisp and unfairly handsome in his suit and tie.

  Reminding myself that he could glean my thoughts, I focused on a cartoon image of me bashing him over the head with a toilet. His lips pressed together even as humor flared in his eyes, lightening them to peridot.

  “How’s that for a feeling?” I asked.

  He almost laughed. Almost. “While I commend your willingness to make sacrifices to find Daphne and the other women, have you forgotten that the White Queen meddled with your mind?”

  I scowled. “The way you said that, I think you might believe my mind belongs to you.”

  He growled, revealing the tips of fangs. “You have no idea how treacherous, how utterly vile the Fae can be. God only knows what they did to you in the Sidhe. It’s inconceivable to me that you’d consider returning to them.”

  His vehemence was overwhelming. “What bothers you more, Connor—that I’d ask Lucian for help, or that he might give it to me?”

  The barb hit the mark, but instead of inciting him further, he sighed heavily and dragged fingers across his scalp, a habit from when his hair was longer. “I apologize,” he said mutedly. His eyes found mine, sincere and finally calm. “I know how much you dislike my presuming to protect you. Believe me, if I could stop being so . . . affected by you, I would.”

  For a moment, it seemed the overhead lights dimmed to the color of blood. Vivid recall of last night’s dream seized me and I was in the flower field again, watching it turn to ash.

  Connor’s fingers gripped my shoulders, jolting me out of my daze.

  I lifted a shaking hand to my forehead. “What was that?” I whispered, searching his face. “That dream?”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “The valley with the mountains, the river? The town?” The memory was hazy now, and I shook my head in frustration. “There were three men. Brothers, I think. I was standing in a field of flowers.”

  When I looked up again, he wore an expression I’d never seen before. Then it was gone, and I wasn’t sure I’d seen it at all.

  “You had a nightmare last night, I’m guessing?” he asked. I nodded. “Nightmares, daily headaches . . . and you were about to invite the Fae into our world.” He released me, stepping back with a noise of aggravation. “You’re entirely too trusting. You didn't know, did you, that the Fae can only cross
with an invitation? And that once invited, they will be able to cross at will to your location?”

  I bristled at the insult. “I’m not stupid. Delilah gave me a crash course in all things Sidhe-related before I left. I know a lot more than you think. And besides, I already summoned Lucian once, in Montana.”

  “And despite how well that went, you still would have brought him here,” he said softly.

  “Yes, Connor!” I said angrily. “He said a woman had begun teaching me more about auras. She might be able to help me find three missing women. Women who might be hurt. Or dying! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me?” he hissed, eyes bleeding to black. “You, Fiona. I have no escape from your thoughts, which are in constant upheaval and conflict. Case in point—your desire clogs the air and my lungs, but you’d rather fight me than fuck me!”

  I flinched. “Get out,” I said, in the same ringing voice I’d used on Marcus last night. When he didn't move, I threw out my hand. A bolt of electricity sizzled between us, striking him in the chest.

  We both froze, then Connor looked down at the fist-sized hole in his jacket and shirt, pale skin showing through. His eyes, green again, narrowed on me. “You’re very lucky I have more impulse control than you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, dragging my hands over my flushed face. “You’re right. About everything.” I dropped my hands to stare at the chipped tiles beneath my feet. “I just want to do something good. I want to find those women. You were the one who put me in this position, knowing me, knowing I have a tendency for all-or-nothing commitment.”

  “Mo spréach,” he said, low and agonized. “Let me touch you.”

  I nodded.

  His arms wrapped around me. Encased me. Calm stole through me, a peace that had nothing to do with Fae magic. It was just him. Just Connor. After close to a minute, I finally gave in and relaxed.

  “Why do you fight this?” he murmured.

  Pieces of the dream floated through me, along with disjointed emotions. Deep intimacy. Forbidden longing. Sin. Consequence.