Tempered (A Daughters of the People Novel) (Daughters of the People Series) (22 page)

He pulled down
two newer looking volumes, found a chair, and hauled his booty to the corner
where Lali slept peacefully, safely protected, much like the artifacts
Hawthorne had sealed behind glass. His eyes grew gritty as he studied the
texts, deciphering them slowly, engrossed in the simply told stories.

A distant hiss
sounded behind him. He looked around, glanced up at the vents spaced evenly
along the tops of the walls. Probably just the heat coming on. He shrugged and
went back to the texts. A moment later, a whoosh startled him into dropping the
book and a heavy object connected with the back of his skull, knocking him off
the chair. His head erupted in pain and his vision blurred and wavered. Lali.
He had to get to Lali. She was crouched on the bed waiting for him, her gray
eyes wide and innocent and full of tears. Lali, his angel.

He shook his
head and pushed himself off the floor on wobbly limbs. Another blow thudded heavily
on his back and he grunted. A third blow bounced off his skull and Lali’s
screams echoed in his ears as his vision narrowed and dimmed, and he floated
endlessly down into darkness.

Hawthorne
tracked Isolde using the notes gathered by the private investigator Yvette had
hired. A handful of foreclosed properties, one of which had been Bobby Upton’s
prison after his kidnapping. Isolde’s personal business interests located
throughout northeast Georgia. An upscale bar in Lawrenceville she habitually
visited, occasionally with Mathias, more frequently alone.

As Hawthorne
entered the bar, she assessed the metal and glass décor, the plastic nature of
the patrons, their laughter empty, their expressions brittle, and the
annoyingly bright music playing through the overhead speakers. It was not what
she would have expected from her niece. Isolde had always preferred enduring
quality over ephemeral fashion.

A hard-eyed,
lean-cheeked young man with his tawny hair cut military short manned the bar,
polishing glasses with a clean towel. Hawthorne slid onto a barstool and met
his even gaze. “I am searching for a woman who frequents this establishment.
Black hair, haughty. Appears to be in her early forties or perhaps younger.”

“Yeah?” The
barkeep shelved the glass and slung the towel over his shoulder. “Lot of women
like that come in here.”

“Isolde is
unlike other women.” Hawthorne pinned him with a glacial stare. “She would be
accorded deference. Those who refused to kowtow would pay a heavy price,
through the application of her fist or the lash of her tongue.”

A smile twitched
around the man’s thin lips, though his gaze remained steady, watchful. “The
table in the back corner.”

Hawthorne nodded
and slid a twenty across the bar to him. She turned casually and surveyed the
corner the barkeep had indicated. A lone woman sat there, hunched over a mug
half full of an amber alcoholic brew, staring morosely into the liquid. Her
copper hair fell in loose waves across her shoulders and down her back,
partially hiding a smattering of multi-colored bruises along her jaw.

Olivia the Good.

Hawthorne waited
patiently, surveying the crowd, searching for other members of the People or
Isolde’s possible allies. When none appeared, she slid easily through the
mindless mass of humanity, pausing beside the woman who had been beaten badly
shortly after young Upton’s kidnapping and left to rot.

Olivia’s gaze
remained on her beverage. “What do you want?”

“Information.”

“I don’t have
anything to say.” Olivia raised her glass and sipped. “You know that.”

“For the sake of
the People…”

Olivia laughed,
a morose noise that hung in the air between them. “Do you think I’ve ever acted
for anything else?”

“You were a
member of the Order, were you not?”

“I was. Not
anymore.” A tear slid down Olivia’s cheek, glinting over bruised flesh. “I gave
my life for the cause, gave everything to save the People from the certain
misery of forced mortality, and what did it get me?”

An unfamiliar
emotion tugged at Hawthorne, something close to pity, though not quite.

“I tried to save
him, you know. The Blade’s Son. India wailed on him for a solid hour before her
anger broke.” Olivia’s hand trembled as she raised her glass and drained it in
one long swallow, ending with a grimace. “And then she wailed on me when she
figured out what I’d done.”

A waitress came
by and exchanged the empty glass for a full one.

“Never could
abide drinking out of a bottle,” Olivia said. “Dear old mom. Old habits stick,
huh?”

“Why are you
here, Olivia? Why have you not sought refuge?”

The glass hit
the table with a thud. Golden liquid splashed over its sides. “There’s no
refuge for a traitor, Hawthorne. Even if I wanted to run, I wouldn’t. No
Daughter is that much of a coward.”

“Some are,”
Hawthorne murmured. “What do you know of Isolde?”

Olivia’s voice
went as flat as her gaze. “Nothing. She never shared her plans with any of the
minions. Even if I knew something, I wouldn’t tell. I’m not a damn snitch
either.”

“Yet you readily
worked to save young Upton.”

“He’s a Son,”
Olivia snapped. “I couldn’t stand by and let her kill him.”

Hawthorne
stifled the contempt that rose. “You twist your loyalty and honor to suit your
own needs.”

“Honor, loyalty.
Duty
.” Olivia bit the words out between clenched teeth. “The by-words of
sheep.”

“The by-words of
a People on the brink of extinction,” Hawthorne corrected grimly. “Do you truly
believe prolonging our immortality will solve that problem?”

“It doesn’t
matter what I think.” Olivia hunched over her glass again, cupping it between
her hands. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone now.”

Hawthorne bit
back a sigh. Obstinate. Olivia had always been too stubborn for her own good.

She turned on
her heel, leaving the young woman who had once been Ruby’s friend to her
solitude, halting when Olivia spoke, too low for Hawthorne to understand.

“What?”
Hawthorne asked.

“Leverage.
Isolde once said that she had enough leverage to always find her way out of a
tight spot.”

Leverage
.

Hawthorne nodded
once, a silent thank you, and wound her way through the crowds and out the
bar’s doors into the chill November night.

What sort of
leverage would Isolde seek, now that she had been loosely linked to the Eternal
Order?

Hawthorne jogged
to her Land Rover and slipped inside, started the car and waited for the engine
to warm. Leverage depended entirely on those involved in the gambit. Isolde’s
leverage would be personal, directed at removing the current threat she faced.

An oily knot of
fear slid into Hawthorne’s gut. Isolde valued the power she wielded above all
else, including the love of her husband and the remnants of her extended
family. If that power were threatened, she would search out the threat and
eliminate it, beginning with those who held knowledge that might endanger her
position.

Or those who
potentially
held such knowledge.

Hawthorne
shifted into gear and eased into the street, steering with one hand as dialed
her cell phone with the other. Mathias’ phone rang four times before switching
to voice mail. She left a message, then texted him with one eye on the road as
she sped through the heavy late-night  traffic toward the home he shared with Isolde.

It was a long
way from Lawrenceville to Isolde’s home just south of the North Carolina state
line. Hawthorne whipped quickly through the clogged streets, merging onto I-985
not long after leaving the bar. She edged the Land Rover up to eighty, focusing
her will on negotiating the ever thinning traffic and not on worry over her
nephew by marriage, slowing when the speed limits changed.

Less than an
hour later, she crossed into Dillard and turned left onto Betty’s Creek Road,
following it to the private drive leading to Isolde’s home. The SUV’s tires
squealed against asphalt as Hawthorne bore down on the brakes and skidded to a stop
outside her niece’s house. She left the vehicle running and darted out its
door, racing up the sidewalk to test the front door’s handle. Relief jolted
through her on finding it unlocked. She slid her Glock 19 silently from its
holster and entered quietly. The low notes of Beethoven flowed from the
direction of the sitting area Mathias preferred, drawing her attention as she stepped
stealthily through the house.

He was sitting
on the sofa facing the fire with his back to the door, so quiet and still her
heart leapt in her chest.
Goddess, please spare his life
. Surely even
Isolde would not stoop to killing her husband, regardless of the threat he
presented.

He lifted a blue
hand-thrown mug from the end table, and Hawthorne exhaled her relief in a
nearly silent sigh.

He turned and
glanced at her. “Hawthorne. What are you doing here?”

She holstered the
Glock. “Searching for Isolde.”

“She’s not been
home in days, not since the last time we spoke.” He stood and faced her, his
brows knit together. “To be honest, if she hadn’t come home by morning, I was
going to contact you to begin a search.”

“Has anyone else
been by? Friends, distant family, other Daughters?”

He shook his
head. “Not a soul. In fact, it’s been unusually quiet around here.”

Hawthorne
nodded. Such was to be expected, given the nature of Isolde’s role within the
People, and perhaps her role in the Order. “It is not safe for you to remain
here, Mathias. You must pack quickly and leave as soon as you can.”

“Sure, if you
think I should.” He eyed her carefully, seemed to hesitate over his next words.
“Any reason I shouldn’t wait for Isolde to come home first?”

“She may be the
one seeking you harm.” When he tensed, she added, “I would spare you such
knowledge if I could.”

“I know.” He
rubbed a hand over his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you would,
Hawthorne. Can you hang around for a while until I’m ready to leave?”

“I had planned
on it, nephew,” she said with a gentle smile.

She followed him
to his room and stood guard while he packed, her thoughts a whirling dervish in
her mind. Perhaps Isolde’s heart had not hardened so much that she would
eliminate her husband and perhaps it had; yet the fact remained that Mathias
remained unfettered. Isolde’s more immediate threat must be something else, or
someone else.

Such as the one
who sought to connect her definitively to the Eternal Order.

Hawthorne cursed
under her breath and yanked out her phone, dialing her house’s landline. When
no one answered, she went through individual cell numbers, letting each one
ring until voice mail picked up. Colin and Brigid, Ruby and Aaron. No one
answered. She shoved her phone into her pants pocket with trembling hands as a
well of panic bubbled up in her gut, engulfing her in a tide of nerves and
fear.

Mathias packed
quickly and secured the house. Hawthorne saw him safely to his vehicle, then
jumped into the still-running Land Rover and pointed it toward Tellowee.

Isolde’s
leverage wasn’t information. It was people, and the threat she aimed to
eliminate was none other than her mother’s only sister.

* * *

Aaron swam into
consciousness through the steady throb of pain pounding like an industrial
asphalt drill into the back of his skull. He touched unsteady fingers to the
root of the pain and came away with blood. His vision wavered and nausea roiled
upward. Concussion probably, no doubt thanks to Isolde, unless Ruby or Colin or
Brigid had taken a sudden notion to off him.

Which was
possible.

He touched the
wound again, prodding the tender flesh, and hissed out a curse when his fingers
aggravated the cut. Nothing broken, but damn, it hurt.

He pushed to a
stand on legs that wobbled and threatened to fold. Lali’s bed was empty, the
chair he’d used for reading overturned, Hawthorne’s books scattered along the
concrete floor. The dim echo of a scream reached him. Lali had screamed. No, he
thought as a second scream rang through the house, Lali was screaming
now
.
He had to get to her, had to help her.

He turned sharply
on his heel. A wave of blackness swam over him, sending pinpricks of light
through his vision. He steadied himself against his knees, stood upright slowly
when his vision returned, and made his way on shaky limbs toward the vault’s
entrance.

Damn bookcases
jumped out in front of him more often than not.

He fell against
them, knocking books and weapons loose, and almost tripped over a rack of
various sized sticks that slithered out of their rungs and found their way
under his feet. Hawthorne was gonna kill him for hurting her precious sticks.
She carried one with her wherever she went, seemed like. Always pointing one of
the damn things at him. A man couldn’t even create a graphic novel without her
sticking one in his stomach.

He shook his
head and blackness rose, lapping at his mind like a tidal wave with a heavy
undertow. Lali. He had to get to Lali. Hawthorne’s sticks could wait.

His brain stuck
on those words. Hawthorne’s sticks. They were a jumbled mess on the floor right
in front of him. He chose one about a yard in length and stabbed an end into
the floor, using it as a cane, and stumbled out of the vault toward Lali’s
diminishing screams.

* * *

Hawthorne parked
her vehicle two blocks from her home and walked the rest of the way in, her
weapons holstered. Moving fast was a higher priority. If weapons were needed,
they were readily at hand, though her own body often proved weapon enough.

She circled
around her nearest neighbor’s yard, avoiding the open sidewalk as she eased
around landscaping and fixtures. She hunkered down behind the stairs leading to
her neighbor’s front porch and observed for long moments. From the exterior,
the house appeared empty. No lights shone from within or without, no trace of
movement stirred in the windows, and an unnatural hush hung over the area.