Blade Bound

by Chloe Neill

  “The green land isn’t part of our world,” Ethan told Luc, putting a supportive hand on his shoulder. “But it’s as real as anything in it.”

  Luc ran a hand through his hair. “I’d have stayed forever. She could have dropped me off and walked away, and I would have stayed a million years and never wanted anything else.”

  “That is the power of fairy,” Ethan said. “There’s a reason fairy tales exist. They are not love stories; they are warnings.”

  “If she keeps enough magic to visit the green land,” Catcher said, “she’ll change supernatural power dynamics across the world.”

  “If she gets the opportunity, she’ll use it against us,” Ethan agreed. “But for now, we must deal with the present.” He cocked his head at Catcher. “Did you come here to help?”

  “And to research,” Mallory said. “I wanted to borrow your library, do some research on the magic we’re seeing. Maybe it will ring some historical bell.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Or historical Bell?”

  “Naming pun,” Catcher said dryly. “Very clever.”

  “And here’s something else clever,” I said. Seth’s suggestion—and Claudia’s visit—had given me an idea. “I think we should go to the source.”

  “Meaning?” Ethan asked.

  I looked at Mallory. “This started with a voice. I think it’s time we take a listen of our own.”

  Ironic silence followed that suggestion.

  “To clarify,” Catcher said. “There’s a voice powerful enough to drive humans literally crazy. And Merit thinks we should tune in to it.”

  But I kept my gaze on Mallory, watched the interest spark in her eyes.

  “If we heard it, we’d learn more about it.” She nodded. “Maybe try to figure out where it was coming from—or who.”

  “That’s the idea,” I said.

  “Could it be done?” Ethan asked.

  “It’s certainly possible,” she said. “It’s magical in origin, so theoretically we should be able to use magic to listen in. But I’d have to work out the details, get my kit together. That will take time. This isn’t OTC magic.”

  “Over the counter?” Ethan asked.

  “I was thinking ‘off the cuff,’” Mallory said with a smile, “but I like yours, too.”

  “How much time will you need?” Ethan asked.

  “Couple of hours, maybe.” Mallory grinned. “I suspect you newlyweds can occupy yourselves in the meantime.”

  “I bet we can,” I said. But the gleam in my eye wasn’t romantic. It was strategic. “I want to break into Sorcha’s house.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  B TO THE E

  “You’re just full of interesting plans tonight,” Catcher said. But I kept my gaze on Ethan, watching emotions and considerations move across his face.

  “She has to have a workroom, an office,” I said. “A place where she preps her magic. I want to see it. Maybe we’ll find something that explains what the hell is happening in Chicago.”

  “And maybe we won’t,” Ethan said, “and we’ll be arrested for breaking and entering.” He looked at Catcher. “Didn’t you look through the house after she was arrested?”

  “We were allotted ten minutes by the crime scene folks,” Catcher said, voice as dry as toast. “That didn’t give us time to get through the entire house—just the center wing.”

  “And we didn’t get anything out of that,” Mallory said, “other than a sense of their atrocious taste.”

  She had it right. There wasn’t much in the Reed house that hadn’t been covered in screaming red velvet or gleaming gilt, every nook filled with furniture and statuary.

  “Can we even get in?” Ethan asked.

  “Reed’s estate is in probate,” Catcher said, running fingers over his shorn hair. “Since Sorcha’s accused of his murder and is still on the lam, the house is being monitored by a security outfit hired by the executor.”

  Ethan looked at me as if he thought that might dissuade me. I just smiled at him.

  “What’s the point of being Sentinel of the city’s best vampire House if I don’t get to break a few human laws?”

  Ethan arched an eyebrow. “Working on your brownnosing game?”

  I grinned back at him. “If it gets me what I want, yes.”

  “I could make a phone call,” Catcher said, “ask for formal permission for you to go through the house. But if they say no, they’ll be on alert, and that will make it harder for you to get in.”

  “And if you don’t make that call,” I said, “we may be able to use our considerable skills to slip inside undetected?”

  “Something like that. And if she does have a work space, there’s a chance she’ll be there, that she slipped past the guards and got inside.”

  “Then she should mind her manners,” Ethan said. “Because this won’t be a social visit.”

  “I say skip the call,” I said, “and don’t put them on alert.” I looked at Ethan.

  He considered in silence for a moment. “What my Sentinel wants, my Sentinel gets.”

  “Since I don’t have a closet stocked with chocolate, that is literally incorrect,” I said. “But good about this Sorcha thing.”

  “While you’re committing crimes, we’ll stay here, work on the magic,” Catcher said. “And maybe, if you’re cool with it, we’ll stay the night at the House.”

  It wasn’t the first time they’d done so. When Mallory had been plugged into the House’s ward, she’d stayed here to keep it running. She’d since figured out a way to power it with good old electricity; she just had to check the magic to make sure everything was working the way it should have.

  “No objection,” Ethan said. “I’m fairly certain your manners are better than Sorcha’s.”

  It wasn’t a difficult threshold to meet.

  • • •

  We were dressed in black, which wasn’t especially unusual for vampires, and had swords belted at our waists. I’d brought along a small, sleek backpack, just in case I found anything worth larceny.

  Luc insisted Brody take the wheel of the SUV, giving us at least one more guard in case we got into trouble. But we didn’t plan to get into trouble. The steady expression on Ethan’s face said that much.

  The temperature had grown even colder. Only five degrees above zero, according to the current weather report. The snow had stopped; maybe the heat sink had sucked all the available moisture from the sky.

  The Reed house was in a historic neighborhood northeast of Hyde Park, where several Gilded Age mansions had been kept historically pristine. It took up a large chunk of the block; not as large a chunk as Cadogan House did in Hyde Park, but with significantly more attitude. This was old money. Old Chicago money.

  The living quarters were shaped like a U, one unified center and separate wings on each end, a private courtyard in the middle. Catcher had been right about the guards. There were two in the front, an additional guard stationed on each side of the house. Possibly more roaming around inside. The heirs to Reed’s fortune, whoever they might be, were taking no chances on their inheritance.

  “We can’t walk in,” I said, and narrowed my gaze at an enormous oak that abutted one corner of the house. “So we go up.”

  • • •

  We left Brody at the curb, crept in darkness through the old and elegant trees that shaded the block, then slipped to the side of the building. We watched the guard in silence, waited for him to pass, then darted to the tree that stood at one corner of the property. There was snow on the ground, but, since it was August, still leaves on the trees. That would give us some cover, at least until we made our way into the house. But we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

  It’s been a while since I’ve climbed a tree, Ethan said, but he grabbed a branch, hauled himself up easily. Vampire strength was a very
handy thing.

  A while for me, too, although not the centuries you’ve probably got on me. I followed him up, and we took one large branch at a time.

  Hold, Ethan said, and I stilled, watched the guard pass beneath us, the green light on his communicator blinking in the darkness. I held my breath, like that would keep us hidden in the dappled moonlight, but couldn’t stop the chunk of snow that fell beneath my foot and landed with an audible splat on the ground fifteen feet below.

  I willed my heart to slow, because it pounded loudly enough that I was sure the guard could hear it. But he kept walking, making his slow procession down the block, watching for the sorceress who might steal her way back into her home.

  This is the tricky bit, Ethan said, and climbed into a standing position, then edged his way across a limb to the stone parapet that edged the house’s second floor. It was only about three feet wide, and would be a very tricky walk. But that was the way in, so no point in bellyaching about it.

  Ethan held out a hand, helped me jump across.

  Being in the tree hadn’t bothered me, but standing on a ledge two stories aboveground did nothing for my appetite. We moved to a dark window, peered inside. It looked like a bedroom, dark and mostly empty. I tried to lift the sash, but it was locked.

  Watch for cars, Ethan said, and let me know when you see one.

  While I nodded, Ethan unsheathed his katana, turned it so the heavy pommel faced the window. And waited.

  It took two long minutes for headlights to play down the street. On its way, I told him. Five seconds.

  When the car passed in front of the house, he slammed the katana against the glass. Glass tinkled inside, but the noise was at least partially muffled by the sound of the passing car. We waited in silence for an alarm, for the heavy thump of guards’ feet, but heard nothing.

  Eyes narrowed in concentration, Ethan reached inside the opening of jagged glass, flipped the lock, lifted the shutter.

  He climbed in first, pushed away glass, then offered a hand to help me inside. We left the window open, cold air spilling into the room behind us, and crept to the closed door that probably led to the interior hallway.

  I got there first, turned the knob with slow and careful concentration, pulled open the door just a sliver.

  The light in the hallway was pale and golden, and there was nothing but silence on the other side.

  We’re clear, I told him, and we stepped into the hallway.

  It was big. Cavernous, as far as houses went. A lot of open space, a lot of marble, and a lot of décor. A museum’s worth of portraits and paintings and tables and credenzas.

  We crept down the hallway to the junction that led to the long gallery of art, and the main staircase between. The hallway was like a museum of doors—one after another in two long rows.

  I guess we start here, I said, and Ethan nodded.

  You take this one, Ethan said. I’ll take the other.

  Roger, I said, and we walked to our respective doors.

  I got a closet. He got the master bedroom. We scoped it out, found nothing interesting. We followed with another bedroom, a bathroom, and a small home theater.

  I hit pay dirt, personally if not professionally, on my third door.

  The room was small, little more than a nook with a window at the end. But the longest wall was filled with books, with a couple of chairs and a small table in front of them.

  Curious, I walked to the shelves, scanned the spines. I’d expected grimoires, celebrity biographies, or true crime stories. I couldn’t imagine Sorcha reading anything else.

  But they were fairy tales. Volume after volume of them, from countries and cultures around the world. Reference books, books for children, picture books. But all about magical creatures and the worlds they inhabited.

  “Fairy Tales of the Round, Round World,” I murmured, and pulled the book from the shelf. It had been one of my favorite books as a child, and I’d pored over the stories of Camelot and Rose Red, fairies and djinns, dozens of times. As a child, this book had been my companion. I’d lost my dog-eared copy somewhere along the way, and hadn’t thought about it in years.

  I opened the book, the pages thick and stiff with age, but absolutely pristine. There were no crayon marks here, no drawings or scribbles in the margins. If Sorcha had read this book, she’d read it carefully and left no trace behind.

  Something about that made me terribly sad. And, looking back at the rest of her books—the hundreds of volumes of stories in this lush room—absolutely furious.

  • • •

  She had everything, and she’d still demanded more. More power. More fame. Just . . . more.

  Ethan must have felt the burst of magic. Sentinel? he asked, stepping into the room.

  She had every opportunity, I told him. Privilege, wealth, status. She could have done anything with that kind of power. And she chose to destroy.

  He walked toward me, brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. You are angry because you were not so different, once upon a time. But your paths diverged.

  He knew me so well. In very different directions, I agreed.

  We’d both been pulled into the world of supernaturals. Me, by an attack. She, presumably, when she learned about her power. And, just like I said, she’d chosen to destroy.

  What did you find? I asked him.

  Another bedroom, he said. So nothing. Since Catcher’s been through the center wing, let’s check the others.

  We walked back into the hallway, made it four feet before the digital pop of a communication device engaging broke the monasterial silence.

  “Moving up to the second floor,” said an unfamiliar voice from the long gallery that led to the main staircase, flashlight beam bobbing as he climbed toward us.

  A guard, probably, doing a sweep of the premises.

  Here, Ethan said, and pulled me into a rounded alcove, our backs pressed against cold stone as the flashlight swept across the hall in front of us.

  The footsteps drew closer until a man in a dark suit with plenty of muscle beneath walked past, flashlight in one hand, comm unit in the other. He paused in front of the alcove, and we held our breath.

  “Nothing in zone four,” he said, lifting the comm to his mouth. “If she’s here, I don’t see her.”

  “Roger that,” said the digital voice on the other end of the line. “Proceed to zone five, check in again.”

  “Roger that,” the man said, and kept walking down the hallway. We peeked out as he turned the corner into the other wing of the house.

  Let’s go, Ethan said, and we crept down the hall in the opposite direction. We found two more bedrooms, three more bathrooms, a sitting room, a game room, and what looked like servants’ quarters.

  And then, at the end of the wing, we opened the final door, and walked into madness.

  “Whoa,” I quietly said.

  The alchemical symbols Sorcha had drawn across the city had been crazily written, in one case covering walls, floor, and ceiling of a toolshed in a cemetery. I’d assumed there’d been so many—and that they’d been drawn in such a bizarre way—because it had been necessary for the magic. Now I wondered if it wasn’t just a symptom of her underlying insanity.

  The room was large, at least as big as the other bedrooms we’d seen. Pale walls, wooden floors, no furniture but a wooden table and chair in the middle of the room.

  But the walls were almost entirely covered in pieces of paper. There were small handwritten notes, pages with pictures and blocks of text, and long scrolls of alchemical symbols like the ones Sorcha had drawn across Chicago tacked across the room. Origami shapes in white paper hung from the ceiling, and shreds of paper were scattered across the floor.

  Ethan walked closer to the wall, brow furrowed as he looked it over.

  I walked to the table, looked at the simple stone bowl that sat
there. There was a box of matches beside it, and a drying twig.

  I lifted it, sniffed. Rosemary, and with the matches and crucible, probably a spot where Sorcha had performed alchemical magic. I looked up. The middle of the ceiling was marked by a large round medallion, its floral shapes covered in soot.

  I put the rosemary down, walked back to Ethan. Alchemy, I said. This is her workroom.

  He nodded, gaze tracking the writings and images.

  There seemed to be a focus area centered on the wall across from the crucible. Green twine linked pages in other parts of the room back to the sheets here. But if there was a narrative here, or any kind of linear logic, I couldn’t see it.

  Does this mean anything to you? he asked.

  Not even a little. I’m guessing she’s working out magic, trying to figure out how to make connections between symbols or spells? But that’s my best guess.

  Ethan nodded.

  Maybe it will make more sense to Mallory, I said, and pulled out my phone, managed to snap one photograph when the alarm split the air, as sharp as a knife.

  “Attention,” said the voice that rang through the house’s apparent intercom system. “Your illegal entry has been detected, and the authorities have been notified. Attention,” it said again, then repeated the message.

  I guess they found the window, Ethan said.

  Or saw our tracks in the snow.

  Either way, he said with a wink, let’s make a graceful exit.

  I nodded. I’m right behind you, I assured him. I darted to the center of the chaos, began ripping papers from the wall, shoving them into my open backpack. I wasn’t leaving empty-handed.

  Then we moved into the hallway, clung to the shadows, and made our way out again.

  • • •

  Mallory was situated at the conference table in Ethan’s office when we returned, books, notebooks, soda cans, paper, and pens spread across the table. It wasn’t unlike the mess in Sorcha’s office, although it didn’t look quite as insane. And I didn’t have a single doubt about Mallory’s motives.

  “We weren’t even gone for two hours,” Ethan said, gaze wide as he took in the chaos of his usually ordered office.