Flamebound (20 page)

“But how did you know the room you found was where Shelby had been kept? I mean, Nate knew because of her sweatshirt, but you weren't privy to that information. You might have traced the killer back there, but they could have kept anyone in that room.”

“Not really.” He smooths a hand down my hair, presses more soft kisses to my shoulder and neck. “Shelby has Hekan blood. Her signature is light, very light, but it's there. Young, innocent, female. It wasn't a stretch, knowing what I did, to assume that the room I'd found had been used to hold her.”

“Do you think—” My voice breaks and I have to start again. “Do you think she's dead?”

“I don't, actually. Or if she is, she didn't die in that room.”

This time I don't need an explanation. Death, especially magical death, leaves its own mark, its own stench—something I've come to understand in the last few weeks.

“But whose blood was on you?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I want to trust him, want to believe in him completely, but I'm not stupid. I know Declan will always push the boundaries, because the line that is so obvious to me is too often blurry for him.

His gaze holds mine. “Shelby's. They bled her in that room.”

My heart aches at the thought, but it's nothing I don't already know. “That's it? Just Shelby's?”

“There was someone else there. Whoever is holding Shelby left him behind to clean up the mess.”

“That still doesn't explain how—” I break off as he looks away. Because suddenly how he ended up streaked with blood becomes crystal clear. I don't bother to ask what he did—I'm not sure I want to know. Besides, it's hard to have sympathy for someone who would participate in the kidnapping and torture of a little girl.

“What did you find out?”

He's surprised. I can feel it, though his face never changes. But he reaches over, rests his hand on my knee. I know it's his way of reaffirming things between us, of making sure that we really are all right.

“He didn't know much. I got a couple of sketchy leads. I've already started looking into them.”

I start to ask what they are, but I realize it's a waste of time before the words even leave my mouth. Declan might be willing to work together, might even be willing to share information when it suits him, but he will always try to protect me when he can. It's the nature of the beast, one I'm learning, slowly, to live with. Besides, I know if he finds something, he'll tell me. And that's enough for now.

“So what do we do now?” I ask, covering a yawn with my hand. Barely half an hour ago I was hyped up on horror and now, after thirty minutes of cuddling with Declan, I'm all but ready to pass out in his arms. There's something about him that makes me feel safe and secure, no matter how topsy-turvy the world around me has become. “How do we find Shelby?”

“We figure out what the killer needs from her.”

“That's easy. He needs her blood.”

Declan nods. “Yes, but why? Why her blood? Why Viktor's? Why Mei's?”

“That theory only works if this
isn't
an assassination attempt on the Council. I mean, we have to decide if they're being killed because of who they are or because of the powers they wield. The bloodletting makes me think it's their powers, yet I'm not so sure. I keep thinking that their positions as Council members have something major to do with this.”

“Maybe it's both,” Declan comments with a shrug. “Maybe he is going after the ACW one by one. But maybe he's doing it in a certain order—one that lets him gain the power he needs to take on the most powerful Councilors.”

It makes sense. Except—“What about Shelby?”

“I don't think we're going to find out the answer to that question until we find her.”

“But how are we going to find her if we don't know what we're looking for?”

“That's the tricky part.”

“The tricky part? That doesn't sound very optimistic.”

“It wasn't meant to,” Declan tells me as he rests his forehead against mine. “But I promise you, I'll do everything in my power to find her and get her home safely.”

I know he will. It's just one of the many things that make Declan who he is.

The last of the tension drains out of me at his assertion, and I relax against him, letting myself drift slowly off to sleep. As I do, I pray that whatever monster is doing this will make a mistake. Because when he does, Declan and I will be there. And he won't get the chance to make a second one.

I
'm yanked back to consciousness some indeterminate amount of time later by the ringing of my house phone. Fumbling for it, I answer with a groggy hello. Beside me, Declan doesn't stir, but something tells me he's awake and listening.

“Xandra?”

“Mom?” I squint across my darkened room, trying to see the alarm clock I keep on my dresser. “What time is it?”

“It's two a.m. I need you to come home.”

“What's wrong?” Normally I'd be suspicious of any request she sends my way—especially since my aunt called me less than twenty-four hours ago with the same request. But she's been a little better, more respectful certainly, since I've gotten out of the hospital and I doubt she's calling just to mess with me right now. My mom might be the sneakiest witch I know, but she's also the most savvy. “I'm not sure I can leave right now. Things are just getting back to normal.” No need for her to know just how chaotic life has been this week.

“It's your father,” she blurts out, her voice breaking in a very unqueenly way. “He's sick.”

It takes a second for her words to compute. My father is one of the halest, heartiest men I know—I've never even seen him get a cold. The idea that he could suddenly be sick enough to warrant a predawn phone call like this doesn't make sense to me. “Where's Rachael?” I demand. “Has she checked him over?”

“She's with him now.” A sob escapes. “I'm calling everyone home, Xandra. It doesn't—it doesn't look good.”

Doesn't look good?
Now I'm really confused. Witches and wizards live a long time—much longer than humans—and my dad isn't that old yet. Not in the grand scheme of things, where three hundred is considered the prime of a wizard's life.

“What's wrong with him?” I'm already out of bed, stumbling around in the dark as I try to find my jeans.

Declan climbs out right after me, turning on the bedside lamp before he, too, reaches for a new outfit—garments not yet riddled with bullet holes.

Just the thought has the night taking on an even more surreal quality.

“The doctor doesn't know and neither does Rachael,” my mother finally answers. “We were playing cards with a few friends tonight when he suddenly slumped over. It's not a stroke or a heart attack—the doctor checked for both even though wizards don't normally have to worry about those—so everyone's clueless. Even Rachael can't figure it out. We've already called Tsura and she'll be here in a few hours.”

Though my mother inherited the throne, Tsura is still one of the highest priestesses in existence, her power second only to her twin's. She's also the most talented healer in our coven.

Declan, who froze when my mother explained what had happened, is eyeing the phone like it's suddenly become a snake. “Have they checked for black magic?” he demands.

In my haste to pick it up, I accidentally hit the Speaker button, so my mom hears Declan loud and clear. “Is that Declan?” she demands.

“It is.”

“Oh. I hadn't realized . . .” Her voice has gone from panicked to regal in the space of a heartbeat. The queen doesn't fall apart in front of anyone who isn't family, and in my mother's mind, Declan will
never
be family. He's too dark, too dangerous, too unpredictable. Then again, my mother and I like very different things in our men.

If Declan registers her sudden coldness, he doesn't let on. Instead, he repeats the question.

“We're looking into that as well,” my mother tells him, and now she sounds downright offended. Like Declan's attempt to help is actually a slam against her competence.

“We'll be there in three hours, Mom,” I say as I grab a duffel bag from my closet and toss some clothes into it indiscriminately.

“Good. So I'll expect you—”

“The two of us, Mom.”

“You're not coming alone?”

I glance at Declan with raised eyebrows. He stares back disgustedly, the look on his face telling me just how stupid he thinks that question is.

“Declan's coming with me,” I tell her.

Suddenly things grow muffled from her side and I realize someone else has come into the room and is talking to her. A minute later I hear a sharp cry and my sister Noora takes the phone. “Xandra?”

“What happened?”

“Hurry.” It's the last thing she says before the line goes dead.

*   *   *

We're about an hour out of Ipswitch when Declan says, “You know this is the Council, don't you?”

He couldn't have shocked me more if he'd reached over and slapped me. I turn to stare at him, but he doesn't take his eyes off the road. But his grip is white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his jaw hard as granite.

“That's a huge assumption,” I tell him when I find my voice again. “Besides, they're all running scared right now. Two Councilors dead and the rest in the crosshairs. They don't have the time, the manpower or the guts to do something like this right now. My father is an exceptionally strong wizard. To take him down like this, to bring him . . .”

I stop. I can't even say the words. My father will be fine, I tell myself, repeating the words like my own personal mantra. My father will be fine. But still, Declan's words make a strange kind of sense. “What better chance to get us to lay off them than to distract me with my father's illness? The only problem is that we're not the ones killing Council members.”

“We know that, but it's pretty obvious at this point that they don't.” He strokes a comforting hand over my hair. “Besides, it doesn't have to be the whole Council. It can be one or two members. The same one or two members who are responsible for the others' deaths. For Shelby. What do you think all that blood collection was for?”

“Wait a minute.” My mind is boggling. “You think that the same person killing Councilors is also responsible for my father's illness? And that that person is also a Council member?”

“Think about it. What better time to make a play for the brass ring?”

“But I thought you said my father's illness was to distract us.”

“No, that's what you said.”

“I don't understand. There are too many variables here to keep track of. The ACW. My father. Shelby. I just don't get how all of these can be part of some master plot. Or, more importantly, why.”

He glances at me, just a quick look out of the corner of his eye that is fraught with impatience. “Are you really that naïve?”

My spine stiffens. “It's not naïve to spend some time thinking things through instead of jumping to conclusions.”

“I've been doing nothing but thinking things through since the moment I realized the ACW was after you, so don't lecture me in that prissy tone, Xandra.”

It's the sharpest tone he's ever used with me. Not to mention, it's completely offensive. “I'm not prissy.”

He snorts. “Of course not.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you need to start seeing the world how it is instead of how you want it to be.” He starts ticking things off on his fingers. “The ACW soulbound us the day you were born. They did so because they wanted to one, limit our magic and two, give me a reason to kill you. When that didn't work, they hired the job out to a sociopath of epic proportions, who not only tortured and killed four unsuspecting women, he nearly did the same to you—after you had already lived through the torment of his attacks on the other victims. And then they tried to frame me for the murders. What in the name of the goddess makes you think that they wouldn't try to kill your father if it was in their best interests?”

“I totally believe they would. I'm just not sure what those best interests are.”

“Think about it, Xandra. Your parents are extremely influential in who gets appointed to the Council. If someone takes out your dad, your mom will be crippled with grief. She won't be in any position to worry about Council appointees. Or, goddess forbid, they kill her, too, and leave your brother—a completely untried king—in charge of the Ipswitch throne. You kill off a few ACW members, get the ear of the grief-stricken queen or shell-shocked new king, and it isn't that hard to control who gets the new seats. And if you control that . . .”

With those last words, everything slides into place. Court espionage isn't my thing, but once someone draws me a map, it's hard not to figure out which direction things are going. “If you control that,” I continue where Declan left off, “then you control the way the laws are made and interpreted by the Council. You control everything.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

“Jesus. That's diabolical.”

“Maybe. But it's also brilliant.”

I stare at him, shocked. “You sound like you approve.”

“Of course I don't approve. But if that's what they're going for, then the plan is genius.”

I still don't like the appreciation I hear in his voice. Oh, I know he's not wishing ill on my parents or anything like that, but there's that dark part of him again. Able to think like a monster. Able, maybe, even to admire that monster. It's more than a little disturbing.

Still, I mull his words over for long seconds, trying my best to poke holes in his theory. But in a terrible, awful way, it makes perfect sense. Especially the bloodletting. If one of the less powerful Council members is behind this, there's a lot of dark magic that can be done with the blood of people as powerful as Alride and Mei. Dark magic that could kill my father, maybe even kill my mother if she isn't prepared for it.

I'm still not sure where Shelby's blood fits in, but as Declan's ideas rattle around in my head—and click—I know that there must be a way. There must be something she could give that no one else could. I just don't know what that is yet.

“I need to call my mother. And Donovan.”

“They already know.”

I gape at him. “How is that even possible?”

“I talked to Donovan about my theory when he called this morning, while you were in the bathroom packing your toiletries He was already halfway there himself, so I guarantee he's already talked it over with your mother.”

“And you didn't think to tell me about it?” My voice is about three octaves higher than usual, but I can't help it. I am damn sick of Declan only sharing what he thinks I need to know. “You talk to my brother, whom you don't even like, but you don't tell me?”

“I'm telling you about it now, aren't I?”

It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to haul off and punch him. Then, because I'm not sure even that's enough, I say, “Stop the car.”

“What?” He looks at me like I'm insane.

“Stop the fucking car.”

When he still doesn't so much as slow down, I yell, “I swear to the goddess, stop the damn car or it's over between us.”

“I don't like threats,” he tells me, even as he finally does what I asked and pulls the car over to the side of the road. “You want to fight, we'll fight. You want to yell at me for trying to protect you, you go right ahead. But you don't get to just issue an ultimatum in the middle of an argument. You don't get to threaten to walk away from me simply because you don't like something that I do.”

“Why not? Because you say so?”

“Because that's not how relationships work!” He's in my face now, his eyes so dark and furious that my stomach jumps uneasily. Oh, I know Declan would never hurt me, but I've never seen him this pissed off. Then again, I've never been this pissed off, either.

“So, now you're an expert on relationships?” I ask sarcastically. “That's a laugh.”

“Don't push me, Xandra.”

“No, Declan, don't you push me.”

I'm gearing up for a huge argument, but he stops me with a hand on my knee. If he'd tried to force my hand, to make me do what he wanted, I probably would have gone for his eyes. I'm that angry. But the gentle pressure of his palm on my leg has the anger draining out of me and tears springing to my eyes. Suddenly, I feel foolish. And petty. Two things I really hate feeling, but I know I deserve to right now.

I know Declan's not very good at relationships, know he's not very good at sharing information because he's never had anyone to share with before. Just yesterday, I'd decided that I was going to hang in, that I wasn't going to give him up no matter what we had to work through. And here I am, threatening to run away the first time he really pisses me off. I need to apologize.

I start to do just that, but Declan only smiles as he pulls back onto the highway, crisis averted. Then he asks, “So is that our first real fight as a couple?”

“If you don't shape up, it's going to be our last, as well.”

Declan sighs heavily. “I know. I'm sorry. I just wanted to give you a little time to come to grips with the news about your dad before I sprang anything else on you.”

“I'm sorry, too.” I fidget for a minute before deciding to hell with it. I apologized, but that doesn't mean I don't have more to say about this whole thing. “I'm not a child, Declan. I don't need you to dole out information to me like candy.”

“Believe me, Xandra. I don't think of you as a child.” He reaches for my hand, pulls it to his lips and kisses it. “You are the strongest, bravest woman I know. I believe, really believe, that you can handle anything. But that doesn't mean I want you to.”

He studies the road for long minutes, his jaw clenched and fingers so tight on the wheel that I'm afraid he might actually rip it off the steering column. I think about poking at him, getting him to talk to me, but I've learned that sometimes it's better to give him space. Or at least as much space as I can in the front seat of a car.

More time passes; my stomach getting tighter with each mile we leave behind us. Just when I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin, he says, “It kills me, these powers that you have. I don't know how you do it. I don't know how you sleep at night or how you get up and go looking, knowing what it is you're going to find. Even worse, knowing what you're going to go through when you do find it.