I was shaking as I forced my hands and arms to obey me, digging into my new bag for my phone and texting Declan.
Where did you get Jasmine’s phone?
I took a picture of the necklace and the envelope. Then I took another closer shot of the return address. A post office box in Connecticut.
Litchfield, Connecticut. The seat of the Fairchild coven.
I texted both pictures to Declan. To Jasmine’s phone, which he had used to call me. Her phone, like her necklace, was something Jasmine would never be without.
My phone pinged with a text message.
>Don’t text me here. The phone might be cloned.
I had no idea what that meant. But before I could ask for clarification, another text message appeared on my screen, this one from a number I didn’t recognize.
>It was mailed to me. Same return address. That’s what brought me to Connecticut.
Addressed to the Conclave?
>Yes. Do you know why?
Two things came to mind. The first was my direct connection to Kett by way of the Conclave contract. The second was the investigation Jasmine and I had conducted into the fledgling vampires. But how either of those things could have led to Jasmine being missing, I had no idea.
Except Jasmine wasn’t simply missing. She’d been kidnapped, and the return of the cellphone and necklace were the kidnappers’ first attempts at contact. Two obvious attempts to draw the Conclave to Connecticut, if not specifically targeting Declan and me.
There was a more obvious connection, though — one that pointed directly to my Uncle Jasper.
Obviously, Jasper knew that Declan and I were connected to the vampire Conclave, because he’d forged that connection himself when he put our names on his contract.
And the last time Jasmine had gone ‘missing,’ she’d been taken by our uncle.
It was an irrational and entirely circumstantial conclusion. But anger flooded through my system nonetheless, washing away the fear that had been threatening to immobilize me since I’d first heard Declan’s voice. I applied my fingers to my phone.
I’m on my way.
I clipped Jasmine’s chain around my neck, carefully tucking it underneath the front of my dress. Then I shoved everything else into my bag. Practically running, I crossed through the living room to my bedroom, then threw together a carry-on suitcase packed with the warmest items I owned.
Those included a matching set of royal-blue cashmere knitwear — a lace scarf, hat, and wrist warmers that had been a series of gifts from Pearl Godfrey, the head of the witches Convocation and Jade’s grandmother. I rarely wore those treasured hand-knit items in order to keep them in pristine condition. But I had a feeling I would need all the comfort I could collect to face the next couple of days.
A text message pinged through on my phone.
> Collingwood airfield. ETA 10:30 AM PST.
Declan must have had the plane en route to me already, or it had already been somewhere on the West Coast. I consulted my map app. Collingwood was apparently a private airport just outside the city. Trust the Fairchilds to never mix with mundanes if they could help it.
I texted the concierge, requesting a taxi. Then I added toiletries to my suitcase before grabbing a three-quarter-length black wool coat that I only rarely wore, leaving my trench coat in the closet. I locked the door behind me and ran for the elevator.
In the cab on the way to the airfield, I finally calmed down enough to think through the possible implications of receiving — and opening — a package addressed to the Conclave.
Kett was the executioner and an elder of the Conclave. Whoever had mailed the package must have known that I had some connection with the governing body of the vampires — as did Declan. But they must not have known that we were in contact with Kett specifically. Otherwise, the parcel most likely would have been addressed to the vampire directly.
So was Jasmine’s kidnapping more about her connection to the Conclave, rather than my connection to Kett? I normally would have assumed that the ongoing case she’d been working on over the holidays was an investigation for the witches Convocation, but Jasmine was open to freelancing. And last October we’d both worked for Kett — or, more specifically, for the vampire Conclave itself.
So if Jasmine had been working for the vampires — maybe even all these past months since we’d worked with Kett — I had no idea how many Adepts she might have come into contact with. Or how many might consider kidnapping her in order to get the Conclave’s attention. Or simply as a response to the Conclave’s investigation. Because it would be so much easier to hunt and capture a witch than to face the executioner himself.
Jasper being involved was an easy conclusion to jump to. And it was one that needed to be at the forefront of any investigation I attempted to mount. But I reminded myself that I had no evidence of his involvement other than my belief that at some nebulous point in the future, it would come down to me against him — again — in a confrontation that would most likely cost me my life. And I wasn’t keen on sacrificing myself without cause.
My name on the Conclave contract, and Kett’s unconfirmed preference for me, might force that confrontation sooner rather than later. But for now, I needed to approach the situation as rationally as I could.
The obvious thing to do would have been to contact Kett for clarification. Except I didn’t have his phone number. I contemplated texting Pearl Godfrey for the vampire’s contact information, which she could get from Jade. But I wasn’t certain who I wanted to involve before I had more information. For all I knew, Declan was overreacting. Perhaps some idiot had stolen Jasmine’s phone and necklace, then had decided to play a terrible prank on us.
But I knew that Jasmine had Kett’s cellphone number. She’d been texting with him back and forth during the case we’d investigated with the executioner.
On a hunch, I opened the contacts on my phone, scrolling through the list of work-related acquaintances I’d been accumulating since I was eighteen. When I came to the Ks, I found a Photoshopped picture of Chuck Norris and a tub of peanut butter.
I snorted. Only Jasmine could have accessed my contacts and inserted the photo — referencing a conversation about the vampire’s confusion over the phrase ‘gargling peanut butter’ — along with Kett’s cellular number.
Even possibly kidnapped and in danger, my best friend could still make me laugh.
I texted Kett the picture I’d taken of the envelope, along with the closer shot of the return address.
I waited for a few moments, phone in hand, just in case the vampire replied quickly. Then, as the cab pulled into the parking area of the private airfield, I double-checked that the volume was up as high as it could go and tucked the phone away in my bag. I didn’t need to risk compromising the electronics with my currently volatile magic.
Whether or not vampires were involved in Jasmine’s disappearance — Kett or anyone else — didn’t matter. Declan had called.
Even after twelve years, even after leaving him alone and severely wounded in a hospital bed without a word of farewell, he would have known that all he had to do was call. He knew that I’d do anything within my power to help him or Jasmine.
And though my family’s reaction to my return with Declan at my side might be fierce and bloody, he was no longer a practically orphaned sixteen-year-old boy at their mercy.
I had to trust that together, we would find Jasmine.
And God help whoever had her, or whoever had hurt her.
Twelve years ago, we three had broken the most powerful witch in the western hemisphere. Literally. We broke Jasper’s back because he had threatened more than simply our safety or our lives. He’d tried to take Jasmine away from us.
And there was no rule or moral code we wouldn’t break for each other.
Because we three were more than family.
We three were bound by blood, forged by terror, and united by magic.
I knew that sitting while not being able to do any
thing useful through a five-and-a-half-hour flight was going to be excruciating. Thankfully, the jet was waiting for me at the airfield, departing just moments after I was on board.
Equally thankfully, I didn’t recognize a single member of the crew, and I was relieved to not be bombarded with questions about my extended absence from the coven. After settling on a chicken salad and the timing of my dinner, the stewards were politely solicitous, leaving me alone in the eight-seat passenger cabin.
Since I’d last used the Fairchild jet, it had been upgraded from a Learjet to a Challenger 350, custom decorated in beige leather, glossy woodgrain paneling, and metal trim throughout. Of course, the high-end technology — touch screens, HD monitors, and so forth — that was now literally at my fingertips meant little to me, though I plugged my phone in to maintain its charge.
I had randomly selected a seat near the middle of the cabin, knowing that even on a flight across the country, my magic wasn’t powerful enough to affect the engines. The wide seat was fully reclinable and came with a footrest, but I remained upright, staring fixedly out the window as if watching the world roll by could somehow force the plane to go faster.
My phone pinged with a text message after we’d been in the air for about thirty minutes. I’d been about to resort to requesting a magazine to keep myself distracted.
I expected the text was from Declan, who I’d sent my estimated time of arrival once I’d confirmed it with the steward. I was due to land in Connecticut shortly after 7:00 p.m. EST.
But it was Kett, requesting more information about the picture I’d sent him while in the cab.
>When did you receive this?
I immediately texted back.
About an hour ago.
>I’m six hours away.
I’m not home. I’m on the jet, heading to Connecticut.
>Litchfield?
Yes. Was Jasmine working on a case for you? Tracking Nigel’s maker?
It was nothing more than a guess that Jasmine’s apparent kidnapping might be related to the events that had accumulated in the deal I’d clumsily brokered between Teresa Garrick and Kett last October, with Nigel’s immortal existence and Ben’s life in the balance. Nigel’s one and only stipulation had been for Kett to avenge his death — the first one, when he’d been remade against his will. Then Nigel had given up his immortality to spare Teresa’s son, Ben. If Jasmine was working for the Conclave, she might well have been helping to track down Nigel’s maker.
>You opened the envelope. Do you have it and its contents with you?
I stared down at the series of text messages on the screen of my phone. The vampire never answered questions straight up. I hadn’t yet figured out whether he was just constantly playing games, or if he simply deemed some responses beneath him. However, I had no patience for either option with Jasmine potentially in jeopardy. So I ignored him in turn and went on the offensive.
When was the last time you saw or heard from Jasmine?
He took long enough to answer that I thought he might have dropped the conversation. I was tempted to text back something along the lines of two can play the ‘ask another question instead of answering’ game, but I was pretty sure I’d made my point. Something about interacting with the vampire made me snitty and childish. Which was disturbing, since he was interested in possibly making me his child. Or remaking me.
>New York. Twenty-three days ago.
New York? Jasmine hadn’t mentioned being in New York to me. Her text messages had been sporadic the last few weeks, but I’d assumed that had been because of the holidays.
>What was in the package, Wisteria?
Jasmine’s necklace.
>The one that held the reconstructions?
Yes. No message.
>The message was clearly articulated.
My stomach squelched with fear. I didn’t need Kett confirming my concerns. Not until I’d gathered some sort of actionable information.
>Why are you heading home?
The return address.
That was a lie of omission. I’d been heading home before I’d received the package, but I didn’t want to mention Declan yet. I didn’t want to open up any discussion with the vampire that included Jasmine’s brother.
>I will find you.
Now why did that sound like a threat?
I had the immediate urge to text back and tell Kett to not track me down, but the Conclave’s name on the envelope completely voided that option.
>Text me if your investigation leads you elsewhere.
>Please.
I wondered briefly how difficult it had been for Kett to type out that last word. Then I chided myself for being uncharitable as I texted back.
I will.
Kett dropped the conversation after that, and I returned to staring out the window at the miles and miles of cloud shielding the earth from my view.
I brushed my fingers across one of the two tiny reconstructions attached to the platinum bracelet I wore perpetually on my right wrist. Magic hummed underneath my fingertips. My magic, in the reconstructions — along with what I assumed was some sort of combination of Kett’s power, Jade’s alchemy, and my magic embedded in the bracelet’s tiny house, fence, and tree charms.
I hadn’t removed the bracelet since Jade had altered it in the kitchen of her bakery, arming me against vampires — or fledgling vampires at a minimum, along with Kett specifically — for my peace of mind. But I wasn’t interested in contemplating the magical artifact at the moment. Instead, I reached for the magic contained in one of the tiny reconstructions, effortlessly pulling a glimpse of a nine-year-old Jasmine from it.
Believing that I would never return — that I would never see Jasmine or Declan again — I had collected two reconstructions before leaving Litchfield for the last time. One was of Declan by the lake. And the other was of Jasmine in the orchard, the day the three of us became a family. The day we’d learned that no one would ever protect us, unless we protected each other.
I spun the reconstruction magic underneath my fingers, watching Jasmine throw her head back and laugh at something either Declan or I had said. Her blond curls danced around her head, her vibrant blue eyes flashing with humor.
Then I let the reconstruction wink out. Staring at it too long wasn’t emotionally healthy, and all I really needed was a glimpse to buoy me. Reconstructionists could easily get obsessed with watching their recreations — as addicted to that magic as a witch could get to black magic or blood magic.
I’d spent every moment of the past twelve years of my life striving to live in the light. To be useful. To contribute to the greater good. Content to be a cog in the operations of the Convocation.
And now I was flying into the darkness I’d barely escaped the first time. Literally and metaphorically. It would be after sunset when we landed, and Declan’s obscure statement of ‘They won’t talk to me’ could mean only one thing.
Even if Jasper wasn’t involved in Jasmine’s kidnapping, I was going to have to confront at least some of the members of my family.
But first, I’d have to face my childhood sweetheart, who had every reason to hate me.
He was waiting for me as promised, standing near a beat-up black Jeep with Connecticut license plates. He’d parked a few feet away from the hangar at the Fairchild’s private airfield in the middle of Litchfield, Connecticut. I stumbled upon seeing him while exiting the jet, grabbing for the railing at the top of the metal stairs as subtly as I could without betraying my reaction — or tumbling all the way down.
From that breath onward, I saw nothing in those moments of my arrival that wasn’t him. I didn’t know if it was snowing or if the moon had risen. I didn’t hear the polite goodbye the steward offered. I didn’t feel the cold, though I probably should have put on my cashmere hat instead of leaving it in my suitcase. I had changed into a royal-blue merino sweater and navy-blue herringbone slacks on the jet.
Declan.
Age twenty-eight.
His
dark-brown hair was cropped short, but it was still wild. Untamed. His bronzed skin was darker than it usually would have been this time of year — twelve years ago, at least. Perhaps he’d been in Mexico for longer than just Christmas with Jasmine. Brushed-metal sunglasses hid his eyes, even though it was after seven in the evening. He was wearing a long, custom-made black leather jacket that had taken a beating, probably on many occasions. The jacket came down to the top of his heavy work boots, but I could see the dark jeans he wore through slits in the side seams. Even from a distance, I could sense that the jacket was layered with a multitude of spells, but only because I couldn’t resist taking a peek at his magic through my personal shields.
He looked nothing like the boy he’d been. Yet my heart knew him in an instant.
I took a step down, then another, carefully descending the stairs. As I drew ever closer to Declan, I visualized my magic building up all around me, enforcing the personal shields I usually held in place effortlessly. Nothing about this day, or this meeting, or about finding Jasmine was going to be effortless. So just as I created reconstruction cubes, pulling them layer by layer out of crushed oyster shells, I gathered my magic tightly around me.
Declan and I were no longer friends. Technically, we weren’t even blood related. And, leaning against the front grille of the Jeep with his arms crossed and a deep glower etched across his face, the discontent he radiated made that even clearer.
This wasn’t a reunion of long-lost lovers.
Another member of the flight crew had already brought my suitcase to the bottom of the steps, standing beside it politely while I finished descending.
“Thank you,” I murmured, taking the handle he’d extended for me.
Then I crossed the tarmac, intending to greet Declan politely, then climb into the Jeep. I’d be poised and professional, as always.
Except as I drew near and Declan unfolded his arms, straightening to his full height, I didn’t pause and offer him a cool smile.
Drawn almost against my will, I closed the space between us. Abandoning my suitcase, I reached forward and up, touching the arms of his sunglasses, then lifting them up and away from his golden-hazel eyes.
Tangled Echoes (Reconstructionist 2) Page 3