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 suddenly shifted beneath my feet, throwing me to the ground. For half a second, I thought a bomb went 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 where my old bedroom was located. 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 my hand 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 I felt the sudden, pointed pressure on my arm spreading to raw heat. I glanced down in time to see a syringe, but it was too late. Fire tore through me, and I felt more hands—strong and holding too tight—gather 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. Metal framework of once tall buildings screeched as it twisted and fell, burning, and there was a roar of utter 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 was pounding. 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 binds cutting into my wrists registered and I remembered. I’d been captured.
The room was empty aside from a metal frame 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 binds 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 was to capture me 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.
<
br /> “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.”
He pushed the hair back from my face and lifted my eyelid with a thumb.
I tried to stay unfocused, I did. But when he blew a puff of air into my eye, my gaze automatically fixed on his.
He smiled. “Well, there she is. Aren’t we happy to see you.” He had dark eyes, well-cut black hair, and a strong, square jaw. It was a face I would remember, but I couldn’t place him from any of Brendan’s files. He called over his shoulder, “Find some water, we’ll get her cleaned up.”
“You’re not supposed to be here alone,” the other man said from behind him.
His jaw clenched, but he didn’t take his hand from beneath my chin, didn’t turn from my gaze. “One more and you’re meat, Fisher.”
“Sir.” He turned from the room without another pause. He’d left the door open, and I could hear commotion at the news that I was awake.
“What are you going to do to me?” I asked, my voice rough and cracked.
He let the pressure off my chin, brushing the rest of my hair back. “Not to worry. It won’t be long.”
The second man reappeared, bringing a damp cloth and a basin of water. He stayed several paces back from me, placing the basin on the floor and scooting it forward with the toe of his boot.
“That will be all,” the one near me said.
“I’m not leaving,” the other replied. The man in front of me turned, and the other added, “Sir.”
My eyes flicked between the two, the dark-haired man must have been a leader of sorts, but it was more than mere rank. His presence was potent.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
He raised a brow. “You don’t already know? How disappointing.”
The sarcasm in his voice was caustic, but when he wiped my face clean, he was overly careful. The rag came away tinged with pink and he rinsed it in the basin.
“Can I have a drink?” I asked.
He brushed the cloth along my arms, streaking dirt and plaster over skin. “Not yet.”
He dropped the cloth into the basin and stood. “I will see you soon, Brianna Drake.”
Both men walked from the room, the second taking the bowl without so much as a glance in my direction. The door banged shut, leaving me damp and alone in the dark room. How many men where outside … fifteen, twenty? It could have been more. How many would it have taken to overcome the Division’s security? How many had been lost there?
How the heck was I supposed to scratch my nose? I blew a puff of air out, wincing at the pain it caused in my shoulder. It did feel better having the dust wiped from my face, but my eyes were still dry, my head throbbing. I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall, trying to clear my thoughts, but I was still too groggy from the drug. I dozed off, waking occasionally to the empty room, but the thirst and the numbness were getting worse.
I yanked again at the binds, which were now cutting into the meat of my wrists, but the only relief I could find was in shifting my legs. I was counting the hours, but there was no way to know how long it had been. Six hours? Ten? Thirty? I’d drifted to sleep once more when the door slammed open, and my head jerked to find the noise.
There was no sound outside, but I knew the other soldiers were there. The dark-haired man stood in the doorway, a bottle of water in one hand. He tilted his head to look at me, as if deciding, and then walked the rest of the way in.
He knelt beside me, bottle in hand, and tipped it toward my mouth. I leaned my chin up, head scraping the wall, and drank.
“There,” the man said, pulling the bottle free, “that’s enough for now.”
I sucked in a breath, relieved at having at least something to drink, but desperate for more. He stood, placing the cap back on, and I croaked, “Wait.”
He shook his head, rolling the half empty bottle in between his hands. “That’s all for now.”
And then he was gone.
I decided, in the hours he was away, that the next time I saw him, he was going to die. But what came through the door next, was not what I’d expected.
“Morgan,” I breathed, the sight of him—suit clean and pressed, face smooth and calm—made my chest ache with a sudden horror.
He smiled. “Brianna, so lovely to see you again.” He crossed the room to me, stopping the toe of his slick black dress shoes just inches from my outstretched leg, and crouched down to face me.
My chest was rising and falling too fast. How had he gotten free? How was he standing here? What did it mean for the others?
Why did I not see this?
He wet his lips, reaching a hand up to trace my cheek with the back of his finger. “I hope they’ve been treating you well. I know how unpleasant captivity can be.”
I felt like retching. I couldn’t even think of what had to have happened for Morgan to be free, not to Wesley, not to any of them.
“I can see you have questions,” Morgan purred. “Let me enlighten you.”
He snapped his fingers and a man I’d not seen in my shock moved the chair closer to him.
“Go,” Morgan commanded, sitting casually into the dirty chair. The man disappeared, leaving the door open behind him. I could see light through the opening, large metal pipes low to the ground. It was a factory, but not one we’d been to on our search.
Morgan edged forward, elbows resting over his knees, and said, “It’s given me a lot of time to think, Brianna, being trapped inside their room.” He pronounced my name like he owned me, and I hated it. He leaned back, pulling a thin silver blade from his inside jacket pocket, and my eyes followed the motion as he gave it a twist, balancing the point against one finger and the grip on the other. The metal reflected light from the vents, from the open door. “How could this have happened, I thought,” he continued. “How could Emily have been the chosen, if you had the power to give us?”
He stared into my eyes with a ferocity that made me certain he was trying his sway, and then he shook his head dismissively. “I’d known it wouldn’t be easy. Of course there would be opposition,” he said, “but, Brianna, this was more.”
His hand shifted and I caught sight of a long scar across his palm.
He saw me looking. “Yes, it wasn’t a clean extraction, but it doesn’t matter. I heal at extraordinary rates now.”
So he’d been sleeping. They’d saved him during the fight, when they’d taken me, and he’d been recovering. For how long now, how many hours or days had I been strapped here? They were under his command and they were keeping me weak on purpose. For him.
He closed his hand over the blade. “If you would listen to me, Brianna dear, I am trying to tell you something important.” My eyes came back to his. He smiled cordially. “There. Now, as I was saying, I’d heard whispers of it before, when I was a boy.”
“Are they alive?” I asked.
He clicked his tongue. “You are testing my patience, Brianna. Let me tell you the story.”
I waited.
He sat staring at me for a few seconds before starting again, as if to be sure I would actually comply. “I know what the others think,” he said. “But Tarian was my ally.”
It took me a moment to recall where I’d heard the name, but Morgan saw when recognition lit my face.
“That’s right,” he said. “The man they claim was responsible for the death of my father.” He tapped a finger casually on his leg. “Tarian had things prepared for me, Brianna. He c
reated an army.”
“Morgan—”
He held up a hand to stop me. “Granted, I’ve had to build it up myself since then, but he gave me the tools I’d need to survive.” He leaned forward, a hint of awe unexpectedly crossing his features, and said, “I didn’t believe him. For all those years, I never thought it was possible. They were no more than legend,” he shook his head, “but even lore had them killed off so long ago. There was no living record of them, anywhere.” He moved closer, drawing a strand of my hair between his fingers. “You’re so like her, Brianna.”
I felt my jaw go tight, the wounds at my wrists pulling hard against their bonds. Morgan closed his eyes, taking in the scent of me. “I should have seen it then. She was so strong, so confident she knew what to do to win. I was a fool. How could anyone have seen the truth, have believed it? But it’s the only way. The prophecy makes sense now, because of the two of you.” His nose brushed my cheek, his breath slow and easy as he brought his lips to my ear and whispered, “Shadow.”
Chapter Sixteen
Secrets
I tried not to react to Morgan’s words, but the shock was too much to hide. A satisfied breath escaped him, brushing my skin. “Yes,” he whispered. “I know why you can do what you do, Brianna. I know how it is that you have the power to give us back our gifts. I know.”
He drew back so I could see his face, but kept his voice low. “And your sister, I understand now why she was the chosen. You are like two halves of a whole. The scales of justice, if you will.” He smiled at his analogy. “Tarian was right, Brianna. And I will have my due.”
His face tightened, and when he straightened in the chair, I could see blood welling in the grip he’d had on the knife. “It wasn’t as if I never expected my brother to betray me, Brianna. But the prophecy, my fate, is not his.”
“What are you talking about?” I replied flippantly, trying for some doubt to seep in, to at least give him pause, but it didn’t work. He’d already decided.
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