Catching Echoes (Reconstructionist 1)

by Meghan Ciana Doidge

Silence fell as we drove out of the suburbs and back into the city. But then, Jasmine and I had never really needed to talk.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The en-suite bathroom was the reason I’d bought my apartment two years ago. I still wasn’t sure that Seattle was where I wanted to settle permanently, but the city suited me for right now — good food, international airport, and no snow. Not considering Hawaii or Alaska, it was pretty much as far away as I could get from my family without leaving the country. I wasn’t a cook, and I didn’t have any hobbies other than crafting my oyster-shell cubes, nor did I entertain. So the gourmet kitchen went unused, my living room furniture was sparse, and the view went mostly unnoticed.

  But the bathroom off my bedroom was my luxury and my solace. Heated floors of white slate tile, towel warmer, walk-in glassed shower, and the most glorious freestanding soaker tub.

  Even the waterfall tub filler was divine.

  In the aftermath of everything that had happened, Jasmine stayed with me for two weeks, sorting out the incident with the Garricks and making sure every last scrape or bruise I’d collected in the cemetery was healed. We’d celebrated her birthday at Canlis, an expensive but incredibly decadent restaurant, and I’d given her the reconstruction from Jade’s bakery. The peaceful smile that had lightened her face upon viewing it almost made up for the events that had summoned me to Vancouver in the first place.

  Jasmine had taken a cab to the airport earlier in the day, heading back to San Francisco on Convocation business.

  I didn’t mind having some alone time. I was more accustomed to being alone than not. But I was still glad my cousin was planning to come back for Thanksgiving at the end of November.

  Every time something traumatic happened in her life or mine, I thought about asking Jasmine to move in with me, or at least to think about relocating to Seattle. But I never did. I wasn’t sure she’d be happy here full-time with only me for company. Plus, I would ruin all her electronics.

  Happily, the hot water heater was located beside the main bathroom on the opposite side of the apartment, so as long as I didn’t touch it, I could luxuriate in as many baths as I wanted.

  I added a dollop of a brand-new bubble bath that Jasmine had purchased for my birthday the previous month from the witch who made her skin cream and hair conditioner. It was brewed with raspberry and tarragon, which I would have thought an odd combination. However, it was supposed to be supremely relaxing.

  Delightfully, it was also exceedingly sudsy.

  I climbed into the tub, taking a moment to let my feet and legs grow accustomed to the heat before lowering my body all the way in. Then I leaned back. The tilt of the tub was perfectly angled. Not so shallow that I felt as though I had to keep myself from slipping down into the water, and not so deep that I couldn’t rest my neck on the tub’s rounded edge.

  The bubbles covered every part of me from the neck down, except for my right arm, which I kept out of the water along the edge of the tub. I hadn’t taken my bracelet off since the incident in the graveyard. Actually, I hadn’t taken it off since Jade infused it with her alchemy. But it was an unaccustomed feeling of comfort, rather than fear, that kept it on me.

  I flicked my wrist quickly twice, shifting the bracelet until the two tiny oyster-shell cubes sat on top of my hand. I triggered one of the reconstructions with less effort than it took me to breathe. It was already a part of me, embedded within my soul, but I wanted to see it … to see him … with my own eyes tonight.

  A dark-haired teenaged boy with golden hazel eyes appeared above my wrist as the magic of the reconstruction unfolded. He looked back over his shoulder and winked. The sight of his tanned face, his easy grin and sparkling eyes was momentarily heart wrenching.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, but then I forced myself to look. I had wanted to see him. I’d wanted to have him near me tonight.

  Declan.

  In the magic I’d collected, Jasmine’s half-brother was a year or so younger than Ben and his friends, though he looked older. Matured by his rocky life, which — though he had a permanent roof over his head and all the food he could eat — wasn’t much better under the care of the Fairchild witches than it had been after he’d been abandoned by his mother to the streets of New Orleans.

  It was twilight in Seattle, as it was within the twelve-year-old reconstruction.

  Declan held his hand up, magic shimmering around his fingers. Pinpoints of blue and green launched upward, exploding into a brilliant display of miniature fireworks a few feet above his head.

  It was a trick he had practiced all that summer. For me.

  His darkly tanned skin had been hot underneath my touch that night. His hair was damp from swimming all day. A rare day during which the two of us had been alone and not at lessons.

  He had lain down next to me in the grass with the sparks of his magic still floating over our heads. I opened my arms and asked him to kiss me, to touch me, the two of us giving ourselves to each other rather than having our affections taken and twisted into some terrible and powerful perversion. We had deliberately broken one of our uncle’s cardinal rules. Our purity would no longer fuel his spells after that night.

  Declan’s caresses had been firm and needy at the same time. Magic danced beneath our skins. And we had loved each other as no one had ever truly loved us.

  Three days later, I had left Declan and Jasmine in a hospital, both of them broken and bruised, forced by my family to walk away from them. My silence was their only guarantee of safety. My absence was the only way I could deal with abandoning them.

  I had collected the reconstruction I played back now only moments before walking away with nothing but my clothing and my name. As far as Declan knew, I hadn’t even visited him in the hospital.

  We had almost died. We’d made a bid for freedom, and we’d won. But not together.

  We’d never be Betty-Sue, Betty-Lou, and Bubba. We’d never have our white picket fence. Not together.

  But we had thwarted my uncle’s bid for power and survived. That was going to have to be enough.

  I passed my wet hand across my face, washing away the tears that had gathered on my cheeks. Reaching above my head for a charcoal cotton towel, I dried my face.

  Then I triggered the reconstruction again, watching Declan’s fireworks with joy once more and trying to let the pain of the remembrance that accompanied it fade away. Twelve years was too long to carry so much pain. I just wanted to remember the good parts, the laughter and the love.

  A vampire was sitting on the edge of the tub. White blond hair, blue-gray cashmere V-neck, distressed black jeans, and all.

  I stifled a shriek, forcing my body to stay down beneath the blanket of bubbles rather than flinging myself naked out of the bathroom.

  The reconstruction winked out.

  “Your new wards are … interesting,” the vampire said.

  “Kett.” I forced myself to speak calmly, hoping he hadn’t ruined the protective magic I had just paid several thousand dollars to have installed around the apartment. “Try knocking.”

  A smile slowly transformed his chiseled features. He reached over to the vanity, then rapped one of the dark cupboard doors lightly with his knuckles.

  I jutted out my chin and kept my shoulders underneath the bubbles, though I seriously wanted to cross my arms over my breasts. “How may I help you?”

  He touched my right hand lightly, his fingers feeling like ice against the steamy air that surrounded the bathtub. “You’ve recovered? Wholly?”

  “Why does that sound like a loaded question?”

  Kett smiled but didn’t elaborate.

  “Yes,” I said begrudgingly. “I have recovered. How is Ben?”

  “Alive.” The vampire cast his gaze around the bathroom, taking in the candles and the low light. He frowned. “Are you expecting someone?”

  “No.”

  He nodded, slowly tapping his fingers on the edge of the tub. He was nervous.

  I didn’t like
that he was nervous.

  “Jasmine isn’t here.” I blurted the words, but then quickly moderated my tone. “If you were looking for her?”

  “I do not seek Jasmine Fairchild,” he said. “Not tonight. Not for this.”

  I had no idea what that meant, but I was starting to get peeved that my lovely evening had been interrupted. “You can’t just come in to someone’s bathroom,” I said. “It’s not done. It’s rude.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, I see. People will think we’re having sex?”

  My jaw dropped. “No one will think we’re having sex! Who would even know you’re here but me?”

  Kett shook his head. “The rules of the twenty-first century have no sense of logic. What applies in one situation doesn’t apply in another.”

  “Bursting into anyone’s bathroom is always rude, in any century.”

  “Point taken.”

  He didn’t leave, though. His gaze was pinned to the black-and-white photo of an eagle hanging over the wall-mounted toilet. The raptor’s eye was the only thing in focus in the shot, its wings a blur all around its head. But I was fairly certain the executioner of the Conclave wasn’t hanging out in my bathroom to discuss photography.

  “Shall we move to the living room?” I asked.

  Kett turned his silver-blue gaze to me, taking in my face, then looking down at the bracelet on my arm. “No,” he said. “I’m not staying.”

  He pulled a thick ream of parchment out of thin air by his left hip, which made me realize that he must have been wearing an invisible satchel of some sort.

  I was immediately jealous, but such complicated magic wouldn’t stay intact if worn by me.

  The vampire touched the thick bundle of pages to the back of my hand. “Delivered and accepted?” He looked at me questioningly.

  I started to turn my hand, to take the letter or whatever it was from him.

  “Don’t get it wet,” he said chidingly.

  I almost laughed, but Kett’s entire demeanor was … off. Solemn and excited. Almost edgy and unsure.

  “Is acceptance binding?” I asked.

  “What is held within was binding for you the moment it was written and signed,” he said. “But I’m delivering it to you formally now.”

  My heart was suddenly lodged in my throat. “All right,” I said, expecting to feel some kind of magic pass between us. But it didn’t.

  Kett nodded, placing the parchment on the vanity counter. He looked back at me, casting his gaze over my face again in that oddly deliberate way. As if he was memorizing my features. Then he nodded as if satisfied.

  I had no idea what the hell was going on. And my bubble bath was getting a trifle thin around the edges.

  “I was exceedingly impressed by your conduct in the cemetery,” he said. “That you persevered and focused on the target, despite your fear, despite the great odds. That you got the boy under control and leveraged the necromancer into releasing me.”

  “Is that a thank you?” I said dryly.

  He smirked. “An acknowledgement that you are more than I took you for, magically and psychologically. That you are … deserving of my attention.”

  My heart was back in my chest now, but thumping wildly. I tried to swallow the fear away. I was unsuccessful.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I whispered. “Are you … are you interested in me?”

  Kett laughed quietly, then straightened from the edge of the tub and crossed toward the door.

  I reached up while his back was turned, retrieving a large bath towel and holding it to my chest as I sat up in the tub.

  When Kett turned back in the doorway, his marble-chiseled features were almost sorrowful. “Might I suggest that the next time you depose a coven leader, you make it official.”

  My stomach churned with dread. The vampire was talking about my uncle, Jasper Fairchild. He was still the head of the Fairchild coven — for reasons of power and politics — even though my Aunt Rose sat on the Convocation and oversaw the coven’s day-to-day operations.

  “I’m not a member of the Fairchild coven,” I said. “I want nothing to do with them.”

  “You are blood. You will always be blood, even if you chose to wipe every single one of them off the face of the earth. Even if you are the last Fairchild, everlasting.” He smiled wryly. “Your vengeance would be a glorious thing to behold, Wisteria.”

  My gaze shifted to the thick ream of parchment sitting like an untriggered malignant spell just across from me.

  “Might I also suggest you take the document to a lawyer,” Kett said. “I understand you went to the Academy with Ember Pine. She practices here in Seattle, and is well versed in Adept contract law.”

  Then he was gone.

  I climbed out of the bath, dragging the soaking wet towel with me and flooding the warm tiled floor. I reached for the stack of parchment before noting with some detachment that my hand was soaking wet. So I grabbed a second towel and dried both my arms.

  With the remainder of my body still dripping wet, I opened the thick document and scanned the first page.

  It was handwritten, a heavy script in black ink. I could see the magic within the words without even trying. The title on the first page declared it to be an application for membership to the Conclave. The remainder of the pages were filled with legal jargon, some of which appeared to be written in Latin.

  That didn’t make any sense. I didn’t want to be a vampire. I hadn’t made any sort of application. Why would Kett give this to me?

  I flipped to the final page, noting a shakily scrawled name and a signature: Jasper James Charles Fairchild. Dated: August 24, 2014.

  “Oh God, no,” I whispered. Then I clamped down on the moan of fear evoked by even the idea of my uncle reincarnated as a vampire.

  The middle section of the final page — under the heading For Consideration — contained a list of handwritten names. A long, exhaustive list. Each and every one was a Fairchild, including my and Jasmine’s parents. Some of the names were such distant relations that I’d never even met them.

  Each name was written in Jasper’s cramped, shaky hand. Each name had been carefully struck through and initialed with the letter K in dark-red ink.

  K for Kett?

  And I was fairly certain that wasn’t actually ink.

  The fourth-to-last name crossed off the list was Jasmine Belinda Joan Fairchild.

  The last three names were Declan Grey Fairchild Benoit, Wisteria Elizabeth Marie Fairchild, and Jasper James Charles Fairchild.

  I stumbled back, barely managing to sit down on the toilet before my legs gave out. I stared at the final three names.

  Declan’s full name. My full name. Jasper’s full name. Knowing someone’s entire name held weight in the magical universe. Our second middle names weren’t even written down in the family chronicle. They were known only to our parents and ourselves. For our own protection.

  My coven leader had somehow coerced my true name from my parents. Or, knowing my mother, he had simply bargained for it. Then he had added that name to the appendix of a contract for application to the Conclave. Without my permission. As if I was just fodder in yet another of his absolutely insane power plays.

  Every other name had been crossed off except the last three.

  Jasper wanted to be turned — to be remade — into a vampire. With my mind racing, I could barely do more than scan the text, but I pieced together enough to understand that for some reason, some condition enforced by the Conclave, he had to offer up the entire Fairchild coven for consideration.

  Kett was going to turn one of us into a vampire.

  The case we had just completed — the reconstructions, tracking the boys down, finding and thwarting the necromancer — had been a test.

  Jasmine had somehow failed it.

  And I had passed.

  It was utterly ridiculous.

  It couldn’t possibly be legally binding.

  I didn’t want to be a vampire. The idea was abho
rrent to me. I’d been running from that kind of darkness since I was sixteen.

  But if that was the case, then why wasn’t I afraid?

  For Michael

  My white picket fence personified.

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to:

  My story & line editor

  Scott Fitzgerald Gray

  My proofreader

  Pauline Nolet

  My beta readers

  Terry Daigle, Angela Flannery, Gael Fleming, Desi Hartzel, and Heather Lewis.

  For their continual encouragement, feedback, & general advice

  Kira Mundhenk — for her suggestion of Elie Tahari

  Heather Doidge-Sidhu — for once again refereeing the final proof

  The Office

  Meghan Ciana Doidge is an award-winning writer based out of Salt Spring Island, British Columbia, Canada. She has a penchant for bloody love stories, superheroes, and the supernatural. She also has a thing for chocolate, potatoes, and cashmere yarn.

  Novels

  After the Virus

  Spirit Binder

  Time Walker

  Cupcakes, Trinkets, and Other Deadly Magic (Dowser 1)

  Trinkets, Treasures, and Other Bloody Magic (Dowser 2)

  Treasures, Demons, and Other Black Magic (Dowser 3)

  I See Me (Oracle 1)

  Shadows, Maps, and Other Ancient Magic (Dowser 4)

  Maps, Artifacts, and Other Arcane Magic (Dowser 5)

  I See You (Oracle 2)

  Artifacts, Dragons, and Other Lethal Magic (Dowser 6)

  I See Us (Oracle 3)

  Catching Echoes (Reconstructionist 1)

  Novellas/Shorts

  Love Lies Bleeding

  The Graveyard Kiss

  For recipes, giveaways, news, and glimpses of upcoming stories, please connect with Meghan on her:

  NEW RELEASE MAILING LIST

  MONTHLY NEWSLETTER

  Personal blog, www.madebymeghan.ca

  Twitter, @mcdoidge

  Facebook, Meghan Ciana Doidge