Soul Kissed (11 page)

They would do just fine.

Mason handled each one, working Shadow with each discovery, his rough fingertips on the crystal planes. He knew Cari watched from the bed. He felt the weight of her interest in the beat of his blood. And when she was just about to sit up again—she’d remembered how to push buttons out of the little holes made for them—he tossed the bottles in the air above her.

She leaned back on her elbows. “Oh!”

He spun the bottles on invisible strings of magic. He’d crafted similar mobiles for Fletcher so many times—with action figures zipping around above his bed. It’d been the only thing that would get Fletcher to actually lie down and stay put long enough to let his body rest. How on Earth did humans manage bedtime for their kids?

Cari settled back, dazzled, watching the jewels spark and spin. “Father gave me those.”

Mason felt the loss in her voice; it echoed his own. What a lonely pair they were.

He sat heavily in a chair near the window and watched her from there. The minutes ticked by and the queer light seemed to leave her skin. Her eyelids fluttered, lush curling fans, then dropped.

He watched her for a while after she slept, the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and smiled at his younger self, who would have been on fire to set foot in Cari’s room.
No, boy,
he wanted to tell himself.
Not in a million years.

When he replaced the bottles on her table, he thought that they did suit her. A small, private extravagance, yet deeply personal. He liked how she wasted nothing on herself, not really.

The glow in the room went pink, the sun finally cresting the horizon. So much for sleep. Of course, with the way the stepmother had looked at him, it was probably for the best anyway.

 

 

Cari finally found her spine, forced her gaze away from the bright midmorning light coming from the windows in Mason’s suite, and looked the man in the eyes. “Thank you for helping me out last night.”

She’d waited downstairs for him, but he’d been working in his room all morning. The short table he was using for a desk held an open laptop. A notepad was sketched over with notes in a rough hand. A coffee cup was making a ring on the pages.

“Don’t mention it.” He’d shaven, his hair still wet and a little wavy from a shower. The man had no finish, no affectation of status; he was unrefined and growing more so with clear signs of wear.

He could’ve taken advantage. Why hadn’t he? The thought was tinged with disappointment.

She shrugged. Stupid vanity. “I haven’t had Shadow poisoning since I was fourteen and huffed Shadow to try to spot a fae.” That’s what it had to be. An extreme version of it, this time brought on by her unexpected inheritance.

His brows drew together quizzically. “Huffed Shadow?”

He didn’t know what she was talking about. Why would he? He hadn’t grown up in a House and tried all the off-limits stuff with magic. “It’s a thing kids do. Huffing Shadow. No? Well, you go down near the wards of a House. The foundation, where Shadow is at its thickest.” She’d actually been at the Walkers’ with Liv when she’d attempted it. “And then you try to take in as much Shadow as you can, cross over—which, yes, I know is impossible—and thereby attempt to spot a fae.”

He looked horrified. “Too much Shadow can kill you.”

“Yes, it can. What’s the old saying?
Too much Shadow and the flesh weeps.
”

“And this is common?”

She nodded. “I’m pretty sure every kid tries it, sooner or later. I’ve never
seen
my father so angry. But I was so sick, bleeding, that I was actually relieved to be punished.”

Before her eyes, Mason’s rough edges frayed just a little more. He had a son in a mage House, and she’d just given him one more cause to worry.

“I’ve never actually heard of a fatality though.”

His jaw flexed.

She wanted to say something that would ease his mind, but couldn’t think what. Talking to him was like walking through a mine field. She backed up instead, collected herself.

“About last night. Like I said, I was pretty worn out. But I’ve slept now”—a whole five hours—“and it won’t happen again.”

He looked at her a long moment, then said, “Pity,” and lifted a comic rakish brow to smolder her way for a second.

Cari smiled, suddenly feeling warm. “The magic with my bottles—it was charming.” Human or not, Mason was constantly surprised.

He shrugged. “A simple trick.”

For his help last night—no, for the
way
he’d helped her last night, she made an uncomfortable admission. “I don’t think there’s anything simple about you.”

 

 

Mason had worked through the early hours of the morning. He’d called Segue and left a message with Adam for Khan. Adam invited them to stop by and catch Shadowman personally, and Mason had to concede that in-person was the best way to speak to Khan, who did not favor technology.

He’d also spent an hour in the Dolan library. Access was an unexpected treasure. Cari had a true mage library, with the oldest tomes properly cared for in their own cases, and cotton gloves nearby for handling. He was tempted to pore over those first, but he’d gone instead for the contemporary limited edition Shadow Press titles, published about twenty years ago. The indexes of each mentioned progenitor fae, so the books were a good place to get a base knowledge. Plus, they were portable.

Years ago, when he was with Livia, he’d sought out all the resources available to a stray to piece together what he could about magekind. He’d traded favors for information so that he wouldn’t be ignorant next to Liv. And when she was in the mood, she’d occasionally throw out a tidbit—a prize to him, nothing to her. In those moments, he felt the difference between them. He, begging for scraps. She, uncomfortable giving them. She’d never liked the difference between them either. But she hadn’t been keen on correcting it.

Cari, in comparison, had been generous in the extreme. And here he was, repaying the favor by stealing information from her company.

He hit the program shortcut to the directory he’d set up for DolanCo’s files. Last night, it had filled up nicely with all the files from Cari’s laptop. Some had been encrypted but his program had taken care of that already. He’d filtered the directory based on the “membrane” term and had a list of twelve files, all contained in a folder called “Umbra.”

He glanced down at his laptop screen to the Discovery Report he was writing for Webb.

People would line up for a vial of pure magic, humans and mages alike, and how fitting that she’d named it Umbra—referring to the particular aptitude of her House. But the membrane they were using was only a partial, and unpredictable, success. So no breakthrough as Webb had hoped, just lots of possibility.

Mason tore a page from the middle of his yellow notepad—where coffee drips had not yet reached. He began to fold, origami-style, a small cup like a scalloped pinecone, open at the top. While he fashioned the shape, he threaded each crease with Shadow, which was left smoking inside the little paper vial when he finished. It was diluted magic, not near the potency of what Dolan was after, but the vial held.

That is, until he set it down, balancing it against the side of his coffee cup, and let go of the paper. Then the Shadow smoked in all directions, unimpeded, through the paper into the air.

Hmmm . . . He wanted his tools. Different materials.

Mason lifted the paper vial again, and Shadow once again swirled into its cup. He was waiting to see how much he could gather, how dark it could get, when his phone rocked a superhero theme.

He knocked over the books in his grab to answer, then forced himself to say calmly, “Hey, my man.”

It’d been five days, but it had felt like forever.

“Hi, Dad.” Fletcher sounded good. Excited. Didn’t miss his dad yet, though Mason was bruised inside. There’d been times when they’d had to be separated for weeks, so a few days’ absence shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. Badly. Fletcher seemed a world away, starting a new life.

“How’s . . . Bran?” Not the question Mason wanted to ask.

Call waiting beeped in, but he ignored it.

He wanted to know how Fletcher had slept, what he’d eaten, if the big house scared him, if Riordan Webb was good to him.

“Bran’s good. Tutor says I’m behind for my age, though. Wants me to do catch-up work.”

Behind? The kid was brilliant. Fletcher was easily beyond grade level. Mason had made damn sure every year. What had they missed?

“So I asked him if I could have fries with that.”

The ache in Mason’s chest exploded in a surprised laugh. His eyes watered. The kid was brutal.

“Get it?” Fletcher sounded proud of himself. “CATCH-UP and FRIES.”

“Yeah, got it. Smartass.” Mason rocked forward, braced elbows on his knees to contain the warmth and hurt that was Fletcher. “You’re okay, then.” He was okay.

“Yeah. I’m okay. I just don’t know like . . . a hundred languages.”

So that’s what it was. “Two’s a good start.” English and, thanks to the part-time nanny, Spanish. “Work hard on the other ninety-eight.”

Call waiting again. Not now.

A snort. Fletcher sounded so good. “Did you get the bad guys yet?”

“Doing my best. It’s a tricky one.”

“You need a secret lair. An epic lair.”

Still with the “epic” it seemed. Bran’s influence.

“I thought we were getting our own plane.” It was a long-standing debate. The kid and him, looking up at the stars, discussing the merits of this or that hero paraphernalia.

“Eh. Changed my mind. Lair.”

Another
beep beep beep.
Call waiting could just. Damn. Wait.

Mason figured the switch to lair was a hold-over from the fun of the fort. “I’ll build it in my spare time.” Best lair ever. It’d be ready when Fletcher was all grown up.

“With a built-in secret escape.”

“Of course. Who’d make a lair without a secret escape?”

“Because you always need a way out.”

Mason’s attention caught. Hovered. His heart trembled, mid-beat. “Do
you
need a way out?”

“Nah. Just saying.”

“Fletcher.”

“Shit,” his son said. “Tutor’s back.”

“Don’t swear.” Mason could feel himself aging. What had Fletcher meant,
a way out
? Had something happened after all?

“Shoot, I mean. Sorry.”

“I’ll spank you later.” He was a crappy father. The kid talking like that. And what did he mean?

Fletcher laughed, and Mason thought he might finally be able to locate his soul without any angelic help. Maybe humans felt it all the time. His was in agony. All he wanted was Fletcher. In fact, all he’d ever really wanted was Fletcher, even before the kid existed.

A man’s voice in the background. The tutor, Mason guessed.

“Love you, Dad. Mañana.”

“Love you, too, kid.”

Mason held the silent phone for a while, his senses numb. His heart was blasted to pieces.

He encrypted Cari’s Umbra file and his Discovery Report with his own personal key, and prepped a quick e-mail to Webb. Attached the file. Hit SEND.

Cari looked out a front parlor window, across the rolling lawn, and into the sycamore trees that blocked a direct view of the house from the road and its encampment of the magic-obsessed. But she saw nothing. Shock had wiped her senses, even locked out the fae, and all that was left was the
oh, please, no
that had been her first words when she’d taken the call from Kaye Brand. Mason, who was just upstairs, had been unreachable.

Erom Vauclain and his father, Salem Vauclain, were dead.

It would be Erom.

He’d come to see her because she’d let him. He had come to make their union official, as they’d discussed many a time over the past few months. Dolan and Vauclain
Sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g.
Then she’d refused him, surprising even herself.

Scarlet and her stepsisters hadn’t said a word when they’d heard. They’d been careful with her, too careful, gazes askance.

And they didn’t have to say anything. Cari knew already. This was her fault. She never should’ve invited him to come. Or should’ve kept him here after. She was so glad, glad to almost weeping, that she’d slept and was strong enough to keep the rush of Shadow at bay, to push Maeve away, because she had to have herself together to face Francis Vauclain, Erom’s brother.

Erom had died because of her. His father, too, the great, near-immortal Salem, whom Erom had joked would never die and give Francis the satisfaction of Vauclain House. Francis must be mad with grief to lose so much so fast. He’d hate Dolan now, and her in particular. And she didn’t blame him. Erom had had so much life before him. He’d been so smart, so sharp, so ready to take his own piece of the world, independent from House expectations.

She heard the footsteps of a heavy, long stride. Masculine. And turned to the door.

Mason leaned in, his leather duffle bag in hand. “You ready?”

He didn’t look away from her. Didn’t let his eyes slide, though he must have known she and Erom had been a couple. All magekind had been expecting an announcement from their Houses.

She nodded, a slight upward jerk of her chin. “I am.”

They’d decided not to take his car this time, which had streaked across television screens everywhere and was now very recognizable. He’d drive her Audi, which Mason would have to admit was an acceptable form of transportation. Plus, it had dark glass, so that no one could see inside.

But all he said when he saw the luxury vehicle was, “You depend on the car to do too much.”

They’d have to get past the small encampment of humans outside her wards. She was sure news and websites would report that a car had left Dolan House. There was no helping that. Mason would have to lose any daring followers on their way. He’d already assured her that he could.

“I depend on the car to drive,” she answered.

“No. You depend on the GPS for directions, instead of reading a map and knowing where you’re going. You depend on buttons to roll down the windows and to adjust the mirrors. A button moves the seat. A computer controls the temperature. You have to
ask
the car to do stuff for you instead of telling it what to do.”

“And in winter the seats warm up, all by themselves.” Cari found herself relaxing. Sparring with Mason made her feel better. Who woulda thought?

He gave her a deadpan look to show her how unimpressed he was—discussion over—and opened the door for her to get in.

When he got in the driver’s side, she looked over to see how he fared. She was pleased to see him suited to the silvers of her luxury vehicle. He’d inadvertently dressed for the role—black jeans, black collared shirt, one button undone, his shirtsleeves rolled up to midarm. He sat as if he owned the car. Or maybe he mastered every vehicle.

When she lifted the wards for them to move out onto the main road, he kept a steady forward creep. The humans banged in rhythm on the hood, roof, trunk, and windows of the car—
No more Sha-dow! No more Sha-dow!
—so loud that Cari winced. Cameras were lifted to show the viewing public they were leaving the property. And sure enough, there was that straight-backed older man, the one who had looked like a prophet, ringing his bell like a preacher calling for an angelic intervention. He had a poster this time:
To save the world, you must die!

Regardless of what the Council wanted, Cari was going to have to make a decision about how to handle the mob. She was gripping her seat long after they left the last human running after them. “You think they’ll ever get tired and go away?”

“Will Shadow go away?” Mason shook his head. “I think the crowd will grow in proportion to the fear that people feel for their families and for the future. There will come a time when you won’t be able to get out the front gate.”

“The Dolan property has another exit.” She had staff making sure it was clear.

“They’ll find that one too, if they haven’t already.”

Panic rose, but Cari pushed Maeve down again.

Cari wanted just one voice in her head—her own. She could still hear the chants striking her brain.
No more Shadow!
Her father had warned her that this time was rapidly coming. She had just thought it was the type of “coming” that stayed on the horizon, a threat used to scare kids, never taken seriously.

Mason turned onto Concord Avenue.

As they left the mob behind, Cari forced her thoughts away from home and down the road. One thing at a time. The plague now. She’d been too late for her father, but Erom and Salem had died just yesterday. Francis should’ve called the Council immediately, but considering all he’d lost, Cari could understand the delay.

She knew the way to Vauclain House by memory, no GPS necessary, thank you. Twenty minutes into Boston, where Vauclain had a gorgeous Victorian brownstone, a turreted four stories of meticulous brick set back from Beacon.

Cari directed Mason to the arched portico at Vauclain House and told him to park there, as Erom had always done when they’d come down to his family’s seat. Staff usually took the car on to the garage.

She was tense, anticipating the recriminations she was about to receive. It couldn’t be helped now. She’d made a terrible mistake. The best thing that she could do was find the perpetrator of this sickness quickly. The Council would bring him or her to justice.

Cari knew that the Vauclain wards protected the building itself, rather than the property as a whole—such was city life. When staff didn’t immediately open the door, she pressed the intercom button to speak. “Cari Dolan and Mason Stray here on Council business.”

A moment’s silence, then, “The stray stays outside.” Francis himself.

Cari looked over at Mason, who was less than stray; he was human.

She pressed the button again. “The Council has designated us as a team, Francis.” What was she doing keeping Mason’s secret from one of her allies?

“He’s Brand’s insult in our time of sorrow,” Francis answered. “I won’t take it.”

Cari had felt exactly the same way when Kaye Brand had shown up, uninvited, in her father’s office. An unforgivable insult.

Cari turned to Mason. “It might be better if you wait outside.”

“I’m going where you do.”

Surely he could understand. “The man just lost his father and his brother . . .”

“You’re projecting your own grief.” His voice was clipped and low. Angry. “Francis Vauclain is the Lord High King of Bastards and his brother Erom was the same. Believe me when I say that when the lovely Cari Dolan comes to call, he will not turn her away. Even if you’re with me.”

“I’m the reason Erom and his father died.” Not so lovely.

“No. The House who poisoned Shadow with this plague is the reason. This time they did magekind a favor.”

She scowled, frustrated. Wasn’t this hard enough? “Stop. Salem Vauclain was a great man. And Erom and Francis were brothers, highly respected.” She wasn’t going to add that Erom had always hated Francis.

“Erom and Francis once left me bound to a tree, naked, in the middle of nowhere.”

Her stomach turned, suddenly remembering that summer so long ago. It had been a joke, but a mean one. And back then, Mason had been someone to be jealous of. He might not have had a House, but he’d seemed to have everything else. She could somewhat understand why Erom acted stupid—he was a teenager—but not Francis, who’d been twenty years older. She was ashamed herself by association, and wouldn’t compound the insult now.

“Point taken.” She turned back to the intercom. “You will open your wards, or I am leaving you to the Council’s discretion.”

A moment passed while she waited for an answer. Then she stepped back, turned toward the car. She’d make sure the Council knew of his lack of cooperation. There were too many dead to use a stray as an excuse to impede catching the killer. Francis Vauclain would feel the recriminations of magekind.

Mason stopped her with a hand to her arm. He cocked his head, as if listening. “There.”

He must have seen the question on her face, because he nodded toward the door. She looked back at Mason, amazed again. How could a human know such things about Shadow? The moment a House’s wards were lifted?

And just then, the front door opened. Oliver, Vauclain House butler, stood waiting to escort them inside.

 

 

Detective Brian Anderson pretended to select something on his iPod, but his attention was on the residence of Salem Vauclain, a known mage. And if Brian wasn’t mistaken, Cari Dolan and her male companion from the DolanCo incident, identity still unknown, had just exited the vehicle in Vauclain’s driveway.

Brian noted the time. 11:23 a.m. He radioed in, requesting backup. “Unit Bravo-12 requesting backup at the corner of Beacon and Dartmouth.” These two had a high potential for trouble.

Pretty day though. Blue sky. Smell of cut grass in the air. The small park across from the Vauclain property wasn’t good for much. Some elderly folks were sitting on the benches—they looked like long-time sweethearts—feeding the birds. A lady with a young child and a high-end stroller. No joggers or walkers; the park was too small.

But Brian had that restless feeling something bad was going to happen.

It was why he’d become a cop in the first place. His instincts were right way too often, and at least this way he could do something about it. He’d ignored the feeling once, and after that, never again. All the condolences in the world—
but how could you have known?
—didn’t count for jack. He
had
known.

Which was why he took a sip of his coffee, long gone cold, and stood to throw the cup away. Glanced down Dartmouth Street. Everything normal. Then glanced the other way. Same.

No one wanted trouble, and mages seemed capable of causing quite a lot, if Cari Dolan’s male companion were any measure. That was some crazy shit he’d pulled to get out of the DolanCo compound. Though for what it was worth, Brian thought the use of force was warranted.

Ms. Dolan and her friend had gotten out of harm’s way before the mob had had a chance to really grow, get really angry, and her house had been quiet—boring—for days now. They’d done nothing to make the situation any worse, but the hysteria everywhere was heightening. Even his girlfriend jumped at shadows and blamed magic for everything scary.

A lot
had
been scary lately.

He’d seen a bona fide ghost for one. About shit himself. And he’d spent one day on the wraith task force—and had gotten two cracked ribs and three weeks sick leave. But he was still undecided if magic or these mage people—who did skulk around as if they had something to hide—were necessarily to blame for it all. Cari Dolan didn’t have so much as a speeding ticket on her record. Her father had been a generous philanthropist. Okay, maybe he gave too much, if that was a crime. And the Vauclain property over there had stayed in the Vauclain family for going on two hundred years. There were no records of their ever disturbing the peace.

Something was happening though. Every nerve in his body was screaming danger. Felt like invisible ants crawling on his skin.

For the first time in a long, long while, he was afraid.

Movement brought his gaze over.

Pedestrian coming into the park. Interesting-looking character—gray, unkempt hair, fair eyes, dirty neck. Six foot. His pants were loose at the knees and his old plaid shirt was dark with sweat stains. He carried a large cardboard sign that read,
The End of the World.

Brian hoped to hell it wasn’t true.

 

 

Mason was rarely awed by magic, he couldn’t afford to be, but the stained-glass ceiling in the massive foyer of Vauclain House was, in a word, awesome. Or maybe audacious. Figures stretched and arched, some anthropomorphic, some animal, trapped in the vivid glass. They lived, even seemed to move, in a two-dimensional plane of light-imbued color. There was no doubt: Fae existed within the glass.

Cari allowed Francis to kiss her cheek, though Mason could see that she didn’t like it. And she did not press her pretty mouth to his face, which Mason found strangely satisfying. Her lips didn’t belong anywhere near that SOB.

Francis didn’t acknowledge him at all, and that was just fine. Being beneath notice endowed him with a certain kind of freedom and protection. If people couldn’t see him or were even more foolish and
chose
not to see him, it was they who were vulnerable. Not him.
By all means, Francis Vauclain, look the other way.

He followed the two while Cari uttered earnest condolences about Erom.

Seemed the two
had
broken up. Trust Cari to have seen the fool for what he was. She had to have been dating the House before, not the man, and probably out of some sort of misplaced sense of duty. An arranged marriage? Had Caspar put them together? The idea of Erom’s hands on Cari . . . Mason shook the thought off; it did cold things to his blood. The material point was that the man was dead. Happily ever after. The end.