Unleashing Echoes (Reconstructionist 3)

by Meghan Ciana Doidge

  “Yeah? Which one of us is going to pull that off? Kett?” Jasmine giggled.

  Declan stepped up beside Jasmine, phone still pressed to his ear. “Grey wants you to email him the details. He figures it’s a good tax write-off for a Fairchild trust.”

  “Of course he does,” I muttered.

  Jasmine hit a key on her computer. “Done!”

  Declan continued looming over me with the phone pressed to his ear. Grinning, he abruptly waved a bag of chips that he’d been hiding behind his back in my face. “Corn chips!” he crowed.

  I grabbed for the bag. He jerked it just out of reach.

  “Really? I can get my own chips.”

  “Last ones,” he said, wagging his eyebrows and the bag at me again. A muffled voice came over the speaker of his phone, pulling his attention away. He addressed Grey, stupidly taking his gaze off me. “Yep, still here.”

  I lunged out of my seat for the bag. Corn chips had always been my favorite when we were kids.

  Declan shouted as we stumbled sideways, grappling for the bag. He managed to tear it from my grasp, but not before we’d ripped it in half.

  Corn chips rained down all over Jasmine’s head and shoulders.

  “Geez, guys!” my best friend shouted.

  Declan’s booming laugh reverberated around the cabin. I collapsed against him, giggling madly.

  “Ah. I thought someone was being murdered,” Kett said coolly from behind us.

  Jasmine gathered a handful of chips from her laptop. “With corn chips?” she asked teasingly. “Or was it the laughing that confused you, vampire?” She shoved the chips in her mouth, happily chewing while she returned to work.

  “What?” Declan spoke into his phone. “No, no one is being murdered, Grey.” He sauntered away, chatting quietly with his father as if he did so every day. I still wasn’t certain whether he and Grey had ever forged a real relationship despite Dahlia’s vindictiveness — and despite the abuse Declan had suffered under Jasper’s so-called tutelage. But if he and his father had managed to bond, then Declan forgave much easier than I did.

  Kett tilted his head as if waiting for something. Something from me.

  I simply smiled at him, then plucked a chip from Jasmine’s abundant curls and ate it. “Salty,” I said appreciatively.

  Jasmine collapsed over her laptop in a fit of giggles.

  Kett raised an eyebrow, closing the space between us. “Might I suggest some real food?”

  “Not sure why,” I whispered, grinning saucily. “I certainly haven’t done anything to build up an appetite.”

  A frown flashed across Kett’s face, then his lips twisted questioningly as he contemplated my innuendo. He brushed his fingers against mine. The gesture, the need for contact, felt almost involuntary. As if his previous touches had all been well considered and carefully implemented.

  “Still,” he said, stepping away abruptly, “I’ll have the steward put something together quickly. Before we land.” He crossed through the jet, passing Declan leaning back against the wall of the galley.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Jasmine said quietly. “We can get used to the vampire. If it has to be him.”

  I combed my fingers through her curls, loosening a few more of the corn chips trapped in her hair. “What do you mean?”

  “When he turns you,” she said, looking at her screen rather than up at me. “It doesn’t mean you have to go away.”

  I stilled. All the joy that had warmed me just moments before was draining away. “I … I think it does. I don’t think they … the Conclave … and I’m not sure …”

  Jasmine reached up, grasping my hand harshly but still not looking at me. “Just ask him. Like with Ben staying with Teresa —”

  “She’s a necromancer, Jasmine. And I think it only works because Ben is … weaker. Because Kett thinks he isn’t strong enough to be around other vampires yet.”

  “Just ask him.” She loosened her grip on my hand, returning to typing.

  I watched her hands flying across the keyboard, suddenly desperately wishing I could drop my shields and get a glimpse of her magic dancing around the laptop. But I didn’t want to inadvertently burn out her computer.

  I glanced over at Declan — but stopped short when I saw Kett standing a few feet down the aisle, watching me. I was suddenly conscious of a tear trailing down my cheek, wiping it away as I turned from his dispassionate gaze.

  Vampires didn’t stay with their human families. They gained immortality and invulnerability, but they didn’t get to keep their old lives. Mostly because their loved ones wouldn’t be safe. Unless your mother was a necromancer, such as in Ben’s case. Or if your maker was able to impose his own control over you, as with Yale’s brood. If I was going to be remade, it was to save Declan and Jasmine not to inadvertently tear their throats out myself.

  “Does your iPad have enough protection on it that I can use it?” I asked Jasmine, keeping my tone as professional as I could.

  “Yep. For a bit at least.” She handed the tablet to me.

  “Could you send me everything you’ve compiled on Jack Harris so far?”

  Jasmine acknowledged my request with a grunt.

  I sat down diagonally across from her, lifting my gaze to Kett. He was still watching me from the aisle. I gestured toward the seat beside me, offering him what I was sure must have been a sad smile.

  “Have you had any luck with a place of residence?” Kett asked, crossing up the aisle toward us and settling into the seat I’d indicated. “LA seems an unlikely place for vampires who cannot bear the sun.”

  “Still stymied,” Jasmine said. “I’m running checks on Valko, Amaya, and Mania. But you know those are totally fake names.”

  “Try Garrick,” Kett said.

  I glanced at him. “You think they might have taken over a property owned by former vampire hunters?”

  “I think it’s an unexplored connection.”

  Declan threw himself into the seat opposite me, then leaned over, trying to read off Jasmine’s screen.

  “Don’t you dare read over my shoulder,” she groused.

  A message flashed across the screen of the iPad I was holding. I tapped it, accepting the airdropped file Jasmine had sent me.

  “I can’t just sit here,” Declan said.

  “Kett says the steward is bringing food,” I said absently. I began reading the files and the brief history that Jasmine had compiled for Jack Harris.

  “I’m not a teenager, Wisteria,” Declan said. “Easily assuaged by the promise of food.”

  Silence fell as three of the four of us read from various electronic devices.

  “What kind of food?” Declan finally asked.

  Chapter 6

  In the end, Grey didn’t have to buy the building that housed the group home from which Jack Harris had gone missing to get us access. He simply had to indicate that the Fairchild Foundation was considering a major donation and that we wanted to assess the home in person.

  We landed at yet another private airfield in LA at a little after one o’clock in the afternoon. Traveling west and two hours back in time had its benefits. And, as was becoming commonplace, Kett had a large white SUV waiting for us. Since we were about to clandestinely investigate a group home in a suburb of Los Angeles, though, he’d swapped out the Cadillac or BMW models he preferred for a Jeep Grand Cherokee. And as soon as we hit the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the first highway, I was lost. Without GPS, I’d have been stranded in the City of Angels forever.

  I’d been to LA and Santa Monica a few times, on contract for the Convocation. But all I could remember of the trip from the airport to the group home was the hour and a half I spent trapped in traffic amid massive urban sprawl. And palm trees in every yard.

  The weather was warm enough that I hadn’t packed any appropriate clothing, so I had to pair a black silk blouse with a cutout lace trim along the V-neck with my two-tone-weave navy-and-black slacks. In the heat of the day, I would swelter whe
never I stepped outside of an air-conditioned vehicle or room. Not knowing how long we’d be in the city, we’d left our luggage with the plane.

  Kett parked a block away from the nondescript three-storey building that housed the group home. A light sweat had already pooled in the small of my back by the time we stepped into the lightly air-conditioned entranceway.

  In an office to the right of a small waiting area, two women were chatting quietly, one younger and taller than the other. Grey had arranged for us to meet with the director of the facility, but I hadn’t caught her name.

  The dark-haired older woman stepped forward to shake Kett’s hand, opening her mouth to speak as she touched him. Then she just paused.

  The second woman stood utterly still, holding what looked like pamphlets as she gazed at the vampire blankly.

  Kett tilted his head slightly, not taking his gaze from the first woman, who I assumed was the director. “Most of the residents are away on a field trip,” he said.

  Apparently, he was reading the director’s mind. I’d known Kett was skilled at ensnaring multiple mundanes at the same time, but not that he could pluck information out of people’s heads while he did so. Perhaps it was the physical contact that gave him such access.

  “I’d like to view the upper floors first,” Kett said. The compulsive power underlying his words brushed against me.

  Declan swore under his breath. His expression was stony, his attention riveted to Kett.

  “Of course,” the director gasped. “Please. This way.” She stepped around us, toward a wide set of stairs leading up.

  Kett glanced at the second woman, possibly an assistant or an administrator of some sort. She smiled dreamily. Then, not taking her gaze from the vampire, she followed the director.

  As the administrator passed her, Jasmine plucked one of the pamphlets out of her hand.

  Declan shook his head grimly at his sister.

  She shrugged nonchalantly, deliberately ignoring how obvious it was that Declan was disturbed by the vampire’s magical prowess, rather than by her actions. “What? It might have different information.”

  “I’ll case the exterior,” he growled, pivoting so quickly that his leather jacket slapped against my leg.

  “Please look for residual pockets,” I said.

  “I’m not an idiot.” He slammed his hand against the entrance door to open it, not bothering to pause or look back as he exited the building.

  Jasmine opened the pamphlet. Kett and the two women disappeared up the stairs.

  I glanced around. Because the police report Jasmine uncovered had indicated that all the windows had been broken on the main floor of the group home, I immediately opted to check a large common area off the entrance for residual magic. Trying to appear like a casual observer looking to make a hefty donation, I wandered through what appeared to be a recreation room, replete with old couches, board games spread across randomly spaced tables, and shelves overflowing with well-worn books.

  As expected, the windows had all been replaced.

  But a large pocket of residual magic hovered around the couch nearest the windows at the back of the room, radiating out as if something magical had exploded. I didn’t even need to lower my personal shields to sense it.

  “Score one for the tech witch,” I muttered to myself, though I didn’t really feel like celebrating the discovery.

  I glanced through the windows behind the couch, seeing only an empty basketball court and some picnic tables. Back the way I’d entered the recreation room, Jasmine was glued to her phone, hovering in the entranceway.

  Catching my cousin’s eye, I nodded. She immediately fished some premade spells from her bag — most likely distraction spells — as she crossed through the recreation room. She placed the first one at a door that stood open to a dining area and a large kitchen.

  As I paced a circle around the pocket of magic I’d found, Jasmine triggered the spell and closed the kitchen door behind her. Then she crossed through the room to a second doorway leading to a hall that likely bisected the remainder of the main floor. She closed that door as well.

  Unfortunately, the arched opening leading to the entranceway was just that — an opening. I wasn’t sure Jasmine had anything as advanced as a mirroring spell — magic that would reflect whatever the person entering the room expected to see — among her collection of premade spells. I might have attempted to surround the entire room with a second circle, as I’d done with the swing set in the park, but the area was large and we didn’t have much time.

  So I swiftly placed my candles instead, keeping my circle tight and assuming that I’d be able to shift it if I needed to. I would let Jasmine worry about any possible foot traffic.

  My hasty circle snapped into place with a mere thought. The residual contained within immediately resolved into a massive cloud of light-blue magic. The reconstruction itself needed no coaxing, as if the residual were eager to reveal what had happened four months before.

  Underneath my raised palms, the magic churned, becoming streaked with red. Then the light in the pocket of the room I’d manifested shifted into what looked like early evening.

  Yale appeared, having apparently just set a dark-brown-haired, dark-skinned, lanky boy on the couch.

  As the scene I was reconstructing continued to run backward, energy ricocheted against the edges of the circle. I gasped involuntarily. Shattered glass — having exploded outward — resolved into windows behind the couch.

  I glanced away from the magic playing underneath my palms, looking over toward Jasmine hovering near the entranceway.

  “It’s him,” I said. “Yale.”

  She looked grim as she nodded, as if my findings were expected. “Find me something to track.”

  “I’ll try.” I returned my attention to the circle. The magic was fading, eroding the image. Then it dissipated.

  Instead of immediately replaying the scene I’d collected, I pressed my palms to the edges of the circle and carefully moved it around the entire room. I checked for any other residual, but found nothing substantial other than a streak of red-blurred movement toward the entranceway. Along with what I now assumed was Jack Harris’s wild magic along the windows.

  I was just settling the circle back at its original location when Jasmine called out.

  “Bus pulling up.”

  I hastily grabbed an oyster-shell cube out of my bag, setting it down in the center of my dormant circle. Then I swiftly replayed and captured the reconstruction in the cube at the same time. I usually preferred to replay a scene before collecting it, concerned that I might miss an important element. Because once I collected it, I couldn’t zoom or shift the reconstruction’s perspective. But at least I’d confirmed Yale’s involvement. And that the boy, Jack, was a witch. Hopefully, we’d find other clues, and possibly some dialogue, on playback.

  The main door slammed open. Over a dozen chattering teenagers poured into the building as I tucked the cube into my purse. I grabbed my candles, snuffing them as I went.

  Jasmine practically stumbled away from the onslaught of teens, most of which headed toward the stairs off the entrance, presumably up to their rooms. After glancing over at me, my best friend snatched what looked like a small stone away from the archway connecting the entranceway to the recreation room. A second wave of kids piled in after her, barely bothering to look in my direction while I attempted to remove the spell on the door to the kitchen, my hands still full of candles that hadn’t hardened yet.

  Jasmine darted across the room to grab a spell from the third door — though not before a teen had tried to use it, then wandered away looking completely confused.

  I made a beeline for the entrance, drawing some assessing looks my way. But the teenagers didn’t question my presence in their space, which made me sad. A stranger in their midst was obviously not unusual. It didn’t seem as though they felt any sense of ownership over their surroundings, or even found any comfort in them. Not enough to defend their territ
ory at least.

  Jasmine caught up with me. “Anyone else in the reconstruction? Anyone we need to question?”

  “Not that I saw. But I didn’t get time to replay it.”

  My cousin glanced behind us. The teenagers were settling onto couches or continuing to wander deeper into the facility. “Someone else had to have seen Yale.”

  “Someone most likely noticed when Jack abruptly disappeared from the room,” I said grimly. “But what are the chances we can figure out who they are? And if we do identify them, what are the chances they answer our questions?”

  Jasmine nodded. “Let’s look at the reconstruction in the car. And see if Declan found anything outside.” She opened the door as she fished her phone out of her back pocket. “And I should probably text Kett to let him know he can let the vulnerable humans go about the rest of their afternoon normally.”

  The neighborhood surrounding the group home had an eighties feel to it. Stuccoed ranchers were everywhere, all of them with sun-faded exterior paint, empty driveways, and gravel or other drought-friendly lawns. Plus more palm trees.

  The hazy day continued to be too warm for me. Once more, I had managed to break out in a light sweat by the time we made it back to the white SUV, which Kett had thankfully parked in a bit of shade.

  Declan was waiting for us. “Nothing of significance around the exterior.” He held open the back driver’s-side door for me, then crossed around to climb into the seat behind Jasmine, who had taken the front passenger seat. “Too much time has passed. If there was anything to find.”

  Leaving my bag and candles on the floor by my feet, I placed the reconstruction on the armrest between the front seats.

  Declan eyed it grimly. “Yale?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’ve reported Jack Harris’s disappearance to the Convocation,” Jasmine said, still bowed over her phone. “And that he’s an untrained, unaffiliated witch. They can get the local coven to start looking for him or other family members.”

  “Is there an organized LA coven?” Declan asked. Then he answered his own question. “Santa Monica, maybe.”