The sad fondness in his voice warned his story didn’t end happily. “Did you want to tell me?”
He hit a particularly nasty spot, and yanked her hair for the first time. “Sorry.”
Morgan shrugged it away. “I do worse brushing it on my own. The only reason I leave it long is so I can tie it back.”
Seconds stretched to minutes, and she didn’t expect him to speak again, so when he did, she jumped.
“My mother was a siren. My father was in love…obsessively in love. His whole world revolved around her. I was an accident. My mother wanted to leave, but promised my father she would stay until I was born.” He switched to another section of her hair, concentrating fully on his task, as if he was merely telling a story. “Sirens don’t need to actively seduce people. It’s part of their natures, like breathing.”
“I thought sirens lived in the ocean.”
“The purer the blood, the more often they have to go back to the sea. It replenishes them. While giving birth to me, father locked her in chains, where she remained for years. He thought her compulsive need was all in her head, that she was sick. He was determined to fix her, stop her from wanting other men. He didn’t understand he was starving her.”
Morgan felt sick, wishing she’d never brought up the subject.
“It wasn’t long before my little sister came along, but the delivery was rough. My mother wasn’t strong enough, after years of starvation and being separated from the sea. She was nothing but skin and bones, despite the feeding tube he forced on her.”
He parted her hair again, cleanly running the brush through the strands over and over. “I was four at the time. Our father blamed us for her death. I was left alone to raise Tamara, the one who made sure she was fed and clothed, while he drank himself into a stupor every night. I was ten when he began to notice we were different from other kids. Tamara was obsessed with water. She would remain underneath the surface for longer and longer each time.”
Morgan grabbed his wrist, but when she tried to twist around to face him, he held her still. “Let me finish.”
She nodded but didn’t release him, needing him to know he wasn’t alone.
“He decided he wasn’t going to fail us like he did our mother.”
Morgan twisted his arm up, displaying dozens of scars. “What happened? Belt buckle or whip?”
His head snapped toward hers, his eyes darkening when he realized she recognized the cause of his scars. “Both. I escaped. Tamara didn’t.”
She couldn’t stand it anymore. She sat and turned, her chest a giant ache when she saw his red-rimmed eyes. The dead look he wore during battle, where he’d trapped his pain inside his soul and allowed it to fester, was raw and fresh. “Tell me you killed him.”
He gave a watery, bitter laugh. “Sirens are mostly women. They’re stronger. When I stepped between him and Tamara, he beat me unconscious. I wasn’t there to protect her when she needed me. Even out cold, I heard her scream and scream. The power of her voice ruptured his ears, then his eyes. When I woke, he was lying in a pool of blood, gray matter oozing out of his ears. Despite being half my age, she was twice as strong.
“I searched everywhere for her, but Tamara was gone. I followed her bloody little footprints throughout the house and trailed her outside. She went into the water. I waited for days, dragged out the old man’s rotting corpse and buried him, but she never returned. Months turned into years before someone from the Academy found me.”
Morgan couldn’t stand the aching loneliness and guilt anymore. She crawled out of the tub, settled into his lab and rested her head on his shoulder. “You didn’t fail your mom, and you didn’t fail your sister. Stop thinking of them as humans. If they are anything like me, they would’ve done what was necessary to protect you. They were stronger than you. They probably thought it was their job.”
She ran her hand along his back, then reluctantly pulled away. “She’s alive. You’re alive. Hold onto that. She’ll return when she’s ready. It’s more than what most people have.”
He nodded, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “We better go, or the guys will come and investigate.”
Morgan rose reluctantly, but when she stepped away, he grabbed her arm. “Stay here. I’ll grab you some clothes.”
He returned a moment later with one of his shirts and a pair of sweats, the bleak soullessness that lingered in his eyes having faded a fraction, the vivid blue reminding her of stormy seas. He politely left, and she dressed quickly, hurrying back into the main room. The guys were in different stages of undress, random bandages all over their bodies. Clearly exhausted, their movements became slower and not as careful. And every one of them was so physically fit, it was hard not to stare and drool.
Ryder had regained control of his wolf. He held his shirt in front of him, and ducked his head, quickly finished dressing when he saw her watching, clearly self-conscious at being on display. He was the biggest of them, and the most buff. Each muscle was clearly defined, and she nearly groaned in disappointment when he tucked in his shirt. He must have shifted into his wolf again while she was getting cleaned up, since he had only minor scrapes and bruises compared to the others.
Atlas was dressed, raising a brow at her in challenge, daring her to strip him, but she saw a bandage peeking out from under his sleeve.
Kincade didn’t carry any extra fat, his frame beautifully sculpted with muscles that were hypnotizing to watch when he moved. Though he wasn’t bulky like a bodybuilder, he clearly knew how to stay fit.
They stood around the table, the ominous silence in the room stretching awkwardly as they watched her, tension holding them rigid, as if they expected her to start crying or something. “Tell me about the mirror.”
Kincade tossed what remained of a roll of gauze on the table. “It shows you what you desire most.”
Morgan frowned at him suspiciously when he refused to meet her gaze, wondering what he’d been thinking about when he stared at the mirror and saw her. He couldn’t have targeted her—he didn’t know anything about her.
So then…why her?
“I don’t understand.”
“The mirror allows me to monitor the school for any possible threats.”
Nausea curled through her gut. “Why would the school summon me if I’m a threat?”
There was a thump under the table, and Kincade grunted as if he’d been kicked. His lips tightening, but not one of them spoke a word.
“It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re the threat. It can also mean danger surrounds you.” It surprised her that Atlas would try to come to her rescue.
“You insisted on no more secrets. No more lies.” Kincade’s voice was silky smooth as he edged closer to her. “What are you not telling us?”
Her gaze flickered toward Draven, and he nodded. “I believe I was sent to the Academy not only to investigate the killings, but for protection.”
Taking a deep breath, Morgan pulled her hair over her shoulder, turned, and lifted her shirt, feeling vulnerable being half naked in front of them.
The silence was deafening.
Kincade broke first and began swearing.
A finger gently traced the air above her skin, the hand hovering just short of touching her, and she shivered at the heat, a wave of pleasure spreading out from the near contact. When she turned her head to look, Kincade stood barely an inch away.
Ryder looked ready to jump out of his skin, but Atlas’s reaction was more dramatic when he went deathly pale. “That’s impossible.”
“I believe my cousin is responsible. When he couldn’t find me, he began to experiment on other girls, using them as substitutes. My cousin wouldn’t hesitate to torture anyone, but he wouldn’t make a secret of it. He also wouldn’t leave their bodies to be discovered until he wanted them found. He must have an accomplice here at the school to do his dirty work while he’s out searching for me.”
Their faces became grimmer with each word.
“And now they found you.”
Kincade began to pace.
“You said you believe the stolen artifacts are connected to my case. Why?”
Draven was the one who spoke. “Primordial magic is a hundred times more potent than the magic witches use.”
“You think someone is stealing the weapons to extract the magic from them.” She glanced at each of them. “Why bother when it’s too powerful for anyone to use?”
“The same reason they want you.” Everyone stilled when Atlas spoke. “The magic in the blades—the same magic you carry in those runes—is powerful enough to rip open rifts anytime they want. If they catch you, they can harvest your magic to gain that power. Unfortunately, the process is very painful, and will ultimately kill you.”
Morgan couldn’t speak for a moment, her thoughts chaotic as she tried to understand what they were telling her. “That makes no sense. There are only two ways for a rift to be opened. Killing a witch and releasing a large burst of magic. Or…” Her mind went blank.
“A Pureblood. Only they can even touch primordial magic, and even fewer can control it.” Atlas was grim as he picked up his weapon and began flipping it in his hand, the only visible sign of his agitation.
“That’s ridiculous.” She couldn’t be a pureblood. She reached up and grabbed the torque around her neck, needing the comfort. The chainmail guard twisted and spun down to a fine chain. Dangling from the tip was a tiny crown, the design so intricate, so dainty, she half expected her touch to crush it.
She jerked her hand away as if stung, while the guys stared at her in shock.
It was a coincidence.
It had to be a fluke.
“Where did you get that?” Atlas’s voice was hushed, almost angry.
“I…I don’t know.” Morgan stuttered, curling her hands into fists to keep from touching it. “I was told it would protect me.”
Now she wondered if it was a lie.
Atlas strode toward her, bent forward and inhaled deeply. She barely quelled the need to coldcock him. “It’s a dampener, a precious metal mined by the dark elves to protect them from magic. It’s damned near priceless.” He straightened and eyed her suspiciously.
The need to smack him increased. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“It’s not what he’s saying.” Kincade elbowed Atlas away, giving her room to breathe. “The light and dark elves are mortal enemies. He automatically turns into an idiot when he doesn’t know the answer to something affecting them.”
Atlas gave him the finger, not even remotely appeased, but he did back off.
“I’m not Tuatha Dé Danann, so what’s the big deal?”
“While the torque might make you invisible to anyone hunting you, it also nulls every bit of magic you possess. It can only be removed by the person who placed it there.” Atlas shook his head, his anger turning to concern. “You can’t use magic while wearing the torque, which makes you extremely vulnerable.”
Morgan was already shaking her head. “But I don’t have any valuable magic. The witches did extensive testing.”
She winced at the memories of the torture, still able to feel the five-inch needles piercing her flesh, the sound of power tools as they drilled into her bones, the pain as they forced magic into her body until it tried to rip her apart from the inside out, one cell at a time. She blew out a heavy breath, struggling against the need to hit something.
“Anyway, what you said isn’t exactly true. I’ve been able to remove the torque for short periods of time. Unfortunately, since I started doing that, the runes have been leaking magic.”
“During the rebellion ten years ago, half the royal court went missing and are presumed dead.” The low, softly spoken words from Atlas raised the hair on the back of her neck.
“Morgan was found in the woods nine years ago with no memories of her past.”
She glared at Draven for spilling the information. “Don’t even go there.”
“There is only one girl her age missing.” Atlas stared at her, his hard green eyes glittering like emeralds. “The king’s niece.”
She snorted at the likelihood. “That’s preposterous.”
The guys’ shared look that made her want to smack them. “What?”
“If what he says is true, you might still have magic. The witches were simply searching for the wrong kind of magic.” Draven’s voice was gentle, but the impact nearly knocked her on her ass.
“No.” She held up her hands to ward them off. “Just no.”
Only purebloods could use primordial magic.
Royalty.
“It’s possible.” But Atlas sounded doubtful. He changed the subject and turned toward Kincade. “It’s a rare gift to be able to transform metals. Has she been in contact with any of the void weapons?”
Kincade shook his head, then turned to the others. “She needs to be tested.”
Morgan didn’t care for the way the conversation was going. Based on her experience, testing was never simple or pain-free. “What are you thinking?”
“If you’re a pureblood, the weapons will respond to your touch. They were created specifically to protect the royal family.” Kincade and the others began to collect their weapons, heading toward their rooms to dress.
Things were moving much too fast for her. “Why does it even matter?”
Everyone paused, but it was Draven who spoke. “If you’re the missing princess, you’re the last pureblood of your kind.”
Morgan was already shaking her head, but he continued to speak. “You’re a direct descendent of the Titan bloodlines, the original primordial gods, and next in line for the crown.”
She went lightheaded at the thought, grabbing the back of her chair to keep from keeling over.
Gods were larger than life and nearly unstoppable.
Maybe more frightening, they were eventually driven insane by their powers and had to be put down. The beginning of the end for them began over a millennium ago.
The gods split into two groups, those who wanted to save the humans, and those who wanted to preserve their own way of life. Neither could be accomplished while the human and primordial realm interacted, so they used their powers to build a barrier between worlds, keeping the humans on one side and the supernaturals on the other.
Whatever magic was trapped Earthside became diluted, mutating into the magic witches were able to wield today, while the ancient magic in the primordial realm thrived and kept the alternative dimension alive.
“You and the king are the last remaining direct descendants.”
The world around her shifted, crumbling beneath her feet, and she couldn’t find any solid ground.
She was just a plain old girl.
A hunter.
Nothing more.
But something niggled at the back of her mind, a suspicion that MacGregor knew more than he was telling her.
“Had any of you visited the MacGregor?”
“It’s bad.” Ryder’s lips tightened. “His wounds are extensive.”
Her heart sank at the idea of not having him around to order her about. He was an unstoppable force. Her brain couldn’t process the thought of losing him. “Will he pull out of it?”
“He’s a tough old coot. If anyone can, it will be him.” Kincade stepped in front of her, the compassion on his face scaring her more than anything. “But he will never be able to fight again.”
Her knees gave out, and she plopped to the floor before anyone could catch her.
It was every warrior’s worst fear.
Warriors would rather go down in battle than be treated as an old invalid to be shuffled into a corner.
“I need to go…” she pulled herself to her feet and nearly fell flat on her face. There wasn’t enough air in the room anymore.
Ryder trailed after her, his arms outstretched, ready to catch her if she faltered. She hesitated outside Ascher’s room, and Draven sighed. “We won’t touch him.”
Morgan nodded and walked blindly out the door.
<
br /> Her cousin’s words came back to her, and she wondered what he was planning next.
He said he would make her pay.
The only way to do that would be to go after MacGregor again…or her men.
Chapter Twenty-one
Morgan couldn’t go back to her room, too restless and overwhelmed with the knowledge that she might be a descendent of a god to be able to sit still.
Not surprisingly, she ended up outside the infirmary, feeling very young and wanting MacGregor to tell her it was all lies and everything would be all right.
A large wolf stood to attention outside the door, discouraging visitors.
She wasn’t deterred. She nodded to the large brown and white beast, barely resisted the urge to fidget as he measured her with those big, brown eyes of his. To her surprise, she received a regal nod in return. He shifted over a few inches, silently granting her permission to enter.
The front office bustled with people, hunters being checked out, supply shelves being stocked and bloodied rags being tossed. No one seemed to notice her as she headed toward the separate room in the back.
“I’ll wait here.” Morgan jumped when Ryder spoke from behind her. She’d completely forgotten his presence. He gingerly lowered his large frame into a small chair by the door, tipped back his head, and closed his eyes.
Morgan watched him for a moment longer, appreciating his silent companionship, then blew out a heavy breath and opened the door. Only one of the twelve beds was occupied. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the still form tucked under the pristine blankets, shocked at his deterioration from virile leader to a broken old man.
“Stop hovering.” He snapped, but ruined the effect when he wheezed. “Either enter or leave an old man to die in peace.”
“You look awful.” Morgan forced her feet to move, coming to a stop by his side.
He scanned her body up and down with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “You don’t look much better, missy.”
Morgan fidgeted with her fingers, her anger at him fading. “I’m glad you survived.”
“Too ornery to kill.” He snorted, then winced, shifting slowly on the bed. “I see you didn’t get yourself kidnapped.”
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