by Anise Rae
Prophet stomped over to his sorceresses who were bunched together, seeking comfort for their horror and grief, but they’d turned themselves into one big fat target if he’d had any bullets left. He kicked Flossy’s body, his boot thudding against her corpse. The women screamed and sobbed, their vibes leaking out into the air. High emotions could do that to mages, but in the Republic, all citizens learned at a young age to control it. It wasn’t optional. Unlike the West, the Republic ensured all mages were properly schooled.
Mara had been so schooled that she had the opposite problem. Fright or anger scared her vibes into hiding. Right now, she wasn’t sure they’d ever see the light of day again.
But they had to.
Prophet leaned toward the women, arms wide. “Anyone else refuse to spin?”
The sorceresses cried louder.
He pivoted to Mara. “Pick out your wheel,” he ordered. “And spin me some copper.”
Those words poured through her like molten steel and hardened in a flash. She would never spin copper again and sure as hell not for a man who killed a sorceress before her eyes. She lifted her chin and tried to loosen the tight tension on her vibes.
Free. Go free.
“Gold is worth more.” She spoke slowly, softly, buying time. Prophet leaned closer to hear her over the wailing women. “Why not gold instead?” she asked.
Come on. Let go.
But her vibes clung to her inner spindle.
“It’s not worth more to me. Copper wire to string across the land. That’s what I want.” A wild light flickered in Prophet’s eyes. “The entire span of the continent will be mine. He who controls the power controls the world.” He raised his voice to be heard over the women. A few of the outlaws had their fingers in their ears, shutting out the grief.
“Enough!” Prophet roared. The women’s sobs ceased as if they had an off switch on their tears. Their vibes didn’t.
“You’re aiming for world domination?” Gregor asked.
Prophet tossed Gregor’s empty gun to him. He caught it with a snap and re-holstered it.
“Only my world, Whitman. This town is the beginning of my empire.” Prophet flicked more ashes from his cigar. Once again, the scribe’s boots were its victim.
The wrinkled scribe tried to kick them off with little success. He grabbed another handkerchief from his pocket…no, two of them. Setting the scroll to the ground, he polished them, a handkerchief in each hand.
“The beginning of an empire?” Gregor asked. His power brushed against her for a moment. He was casting a spell. She might not have noticed if she hadn’t been standing next to him…not with the sorceresses leaking their grief through their vibes.
“Yeah,” Prophet replied.
The word resounded in her ear with an echo of mage vibes. She tried not to frown, to keep her expression free of whatever deceit Gregor was brewing.
“Tell him to let the women go,” he cast to her ear.
“You should let the women go.” She spoke without giving it thought. Her trust in him still caught her by surprise. “They have no experience with spinning. Even Power United prefers sorceresses who have experience at spinning. Otherwise, they train them for a year before they’re put to work at hay.”
“I don’t have a Goddess damn year, girl!”
She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to flinch.
“Tell him again,” Gregor cast. “Keep going.”
If anyone might have noticed his lips moving, Seth provided an inadvertent distraction, dragging away Flossy’s body feet first. Her arms stretched along the ground. A stain darkened the dirt beneath her.
“You’ll kill them if you force them to spin metal. You have to let them go.”
“Let them go?” Prophet bellowed. His face turned red from chin to hairline. His vibes streamed out with his fury. His time in the West must have erased the Republic’s training.
Gregor’s energy shot past and pulled Prophet’s words back as if he’d caught them in a net. She glanced around, but no one else noticed, too distracted by Prophet’s building fury.
“Let them go?” He raged on.
Gregor’s energy shot forth again, casting out the net of vibes and yanking it back.
Prophet’s mouth moved, but, this time, no words sounded. His vocal cords refused to cooperate. He squinted and leaned forward, hands to knees, his lips working. But his roar was silenced.
“Boss.” Seth put his hand on Prophet’s back. “What’s wrong? You having another fit?”
Prophet shoved the man away. Seth went flying, kicking the scribe’s scroll that rested on the ground. It landed near the motorcycles. Seth landed on his back.
Prophet turned to them. The rage in his eyes was nearly enough to send Mara flying too. He pointed at them. “Let them go!” His command didn’t match the movements of his mouth. His lips shifted with a hundred words but none of them made it past his throat. “Let them go! Let them go!”
Somehow, Gregor had captured Prophet’s words and was replaying them. She’d never heard of a spell like that in her life.
The Black Skulls looked at Seth, seeking guidance, though he was clearly in the doghouse with Prophet. “Sure, boss,” Seth said, still on the ground. “Let them go!”
“How ‘bout a bike so we get out of your hair completely?” Gregor asked.
“Yeah.” Prophet’s single word snapped through the air, annoyed, but his mouth moved with a thousand other things.
“Definitely another fit,” the scribe muttered. “And it’s a doozy. Where’s my scroll?”
Prophet shook his head furiously at the man, but the same words erupted from his out-of-control mouth. “Let them go!” Same tone. Same rhythm. He was on repeat.
Gregor took her hand and pulled her toward the bikes. “We’ll take your bike, Seth. You don’t mind, right?”
“Yeah,” Prophet snapped while his lips carried on another silent conversation.
Mara stumbled, conveniently, at the right spot, her hand steady as she scooped up the scroll and stuck it inside her pocket. Knowledge was power and she needed every bit she could get.
They grabbed their packs from a bike’s sidecar, along with her spindle.
Mara looked back one last time. Prophet clutched at his throat and then covered his mouth with his hands. “Let them go!” The words burst through.
“Goddess help us,” an outlaw said. “He’s lost it for sure this time.”
16
Gregor pushed the motorcycle’s engine hard. The image of Prophet pointing his own gun at Mara played in a loop in his mind.
He’d almost lost her. This time, it would have been forever. Any future that might have played out between them would have been erased. He hadn’t thought she was his to lose. Not like that. He hadn’t realized how much he was counting on the chance to win her over.
He used to be better at introspection than this. Before the needle, he knew himself, from his first vibe to his last, from his evil thoughts—and everyone had them, acknowledged or not—to his greatest hopes. Mara had become the latter…probably from the minute he’d opened her file. He just hadn’t realized the extent of it until the barrel of his gun had targeted her.
What the hell had happened to him that he needed a bullet to shatter the fog encasing his mind?
Maybe death did that for everyone. It cleared things up in a jiffy. Wanting to die, on the other hand, did the opposite. It blinded you to everything.
From her seat on the bike behind him, Mara leaned against him, her cheek against his back. It felt right having her there, leaning on him.
His spell had protected her, repelling the bullet that would have ripped into her chest. Mara was right. The needle hadn’t diminished his strength, but Goddess above, he’d never dreamed of testing it like that.
He put his hand on hers where she held him around the waist. She’d tied herself there with a knot of her power just before she’d fallen asleep. He’d added his own spell, anchoring his power around her back.
At least she hadn’t run away from him this time. He hadn’t needed to pull out the tracker to find her.
Progress.
He pushed the bike faster. It came close to flying as it sped across the Wild West. Houston was a hell of an engine mage if he was responsible for the capabilities of this machine.
He glanced at the side mirror, still nothing but empty terrain behind them and before them, the cityscape. For safety’s sake, he sent out another pulse of vibes to the east, seeking any blip that might indicate they were being followed.
The spell he’d used to steal Prophet’s sounds should have lasted about four hours. The rumble spell he’d attached to the man’s hands, a parting gift just before they’d fled, had a similar life. Any movement with his fingers would rumble the air. The booming noise should have deterred Prophet from writing down a command to pursue them. But they were two hours past that window.
Mara’s dark curls tossed in the wind and brushed against the back of his neck, a seductive touch independent of their mistress. Goddess, after everything they’d been through, if he could have his power back right now, the first thing he’d do was sing her a song. How many women had he sang to in his past? Too many to remember if he was honest. But the spark it ignited in their eyes, the gentle smiles tinged with lust…those parts he remembered. Now, when it counted, when it mattered, he couldn’t hum a single note. But he had to wonder if even at his best his song would have been enough to entice Mara into a thief’s arms.
He guided the bike into the bustling city. The streets were clogged with everything from trucks and cars to riders on horseback, bicyclists, and pedestrians. The buildings were a mix of brick and wood, tightly side by side, and rose only four or five stories. Most dated back to the beginning of the century, though there were a few modern ones, plain and stark compared to their older companions.
He navigated over the brick-paved street slowly. Their borrowed bike got suspicious looks.
Mara shifted against his back, the feel of her soft breasts prompting an instant response in his blood.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
Probably not what he was suddenly thinking about.
“I thought you were asleep.” If sound hadn’t been his specialty, he never would have heard her over the engine.
She shrugged against him, loosening her knotted power around her hands. He slowly freed his spell.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“I booked us in a hotel. We’re almost there.”
“No. Not a hotel.” Her words were adamant.
A caution flag waved in his mind. For now, he didn’t argue.
He’d find them a secluded spot first. He continued in the direction of the river, passing Fifth Street and then Fourth. He turned down a small alley and cut through an old parking lot behind a factory to an abandoned dock on the river.
These old docks were everywhere. This one was empty and isolated, surrounded by a patch of overgrown trees and bushes. Perfect. He almost had to duck under them as he drove out on it, casting a concealment spell as he went. The risk of Nons being close enough to sense his mage vibes was minimal.
The motorcycle’s wheels bumped over the boards. He shut off the engine and activated the kickstand spell near his feet. Mara swung her leg over the bike and got off. He instantly missed the feel of her against him, her warmth, her softness.
She walked to where the dock met the concrete and looked out beyond the trees. If she hadn’t dropped her pack—her strange sword stuck out its top—he would have worried she was leaving despite the fact she requested this talk.
She turned to him and pointed over her shoulder toward the old factory about two hundred yards from the dock. “That’s the mill I use to weave the denim.”
“I know. Part of your file. I studied a map of the area.” He continued at her raised eyebrow. “I did a thorough job back when I was gainfully employed.”
Reaching out, she brushed her hand through his concealment spell and her touch resonated against him—a warm whisper dashing along his skin. “I can’t believe he killed that woman.” A visible shiver ran along her shoulders. She edged in closer to his spell as if it was a source of comfort. His arms could have comforted her better, but he didn’t move.
“I can’t stop thinking about it. Do you think the High Councilor foresaw Flossy’s death?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think she knows anything about the Black Skulls’ involvement in this. Surely, she would have taken a different tactic if she knew. She could have sent professionals instead of risking you.”
“Prophet said seek her truth—my truth—to heal.”
“I’d choose the High Councilor over him any day.” Prophet was vibing crazy. His prophecy had stirred Gregor’s hope, but only for a moment.
“But what if he’s right?” She put a finger to her lush lips. “I can only think of one truth I have that no one else would see or consider. What if the gray repose spider silk could help you?”
“No.” He choked on the word. He would never touch a fairy creature’s cast-offs like that.
A dozen rejections clogged his throat, none of which were polite. He swallowed them down. She was only trying to help, but she didn’t understand the needle’s horror if she was suggesting that.
No one did.
“That’s not the answer. That will never be the answer. I want nothing to do with the fairies. Their power is malicious.” His volume grew. He exhaled hard seeking control. He didn’t want to shout. Not at her. “Nothing should have the power to steal a mage’s free will.”
She stepped toward him, stopping within arm’s reach. “But the spiders don’t take anything. They rebalance systems. They restore them.”
He looked away. “Please, Mara. Stop.”
And for a moment she did. But then she finished her plea in a small voice. “Isn’t it worth a try if they could help you hear your songs again?”
He closed his eyes, trying to find the memories of the tunes and songs and chants he’d spent a lifetime listening to, but they were gone. Erased. He couldn’t even replay them. Simply trying seemed to open a drain somewhere deep inside him and the songs faded further away. “Do you know how a cadence mage recognizes his mate?” The words scraped against his throat.
She shook her head, her lips tugging into a solemn frown. Sadness drooped along the corners of her eyes. He didn’t want her sympathy, but he had to make her understand.
“He hears the sound of her vibes. It can be a melody or a simple tone. Either way, it resonates in perfect harmony with his. I never found mine.” He struggled to get the words past his tightening throat. “And I never will. Fairies and their relics took that from me. There is nothing good about them. Some residue from one of their creatures isn’t going to fix it. If I could, I’d make you promise me that you’d never use them again.”
She straightened. “I’d never promise you that.”
“I know.” It created a distance between them, one that he wondered if they could bridge.
“I want to help. But that’s all I have to offer you.”
“You’ve helped me believe in my power again. That’s something I never thought would happen.” He stroked his fingers over her cheek and he felt the flutter in her breath. “Though I would rather it not have involved a crazy man shooting a gun at you.”
“Me too. Especially one who wants the white wheel. He talked like he knew where it was. That’s what this bait seasoned with evil has found for the High Councilor so far.”
Thinking about it set prickles through his teeth.
“Maybe we should go back,” she said, “and spy on his little town.”
Fear rumbled through him. He put his hands on her shoulders and dropped his chin until his gaze matched hers. “No. Not you. Don’t get any ideas.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going without you.” Her words were easy, matter-of-fact and he felt like he could breathe again for the first time in a long while. A weight he h
adn’t know he carried dissipated.
They were in this together.
Mara sat on the edge of the dock, her feet hanging over the edge. Gregor rummaged through his pack and pulled out food. When he’d insisted they eat, she’d expected a meal potion shaken in a bottle of water. Instead, he’d brought a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, grapes, olives, and meat kabobs.
“I can’t believe you packed all that.”
He smiled. “When was the last time you went on a picnic?” Without the smile, he was handsome; with it, she almost missed the question. She had to focus.
Having tea with her sorceresses at the back of her mill was as close as she’d ever come to having a picnic, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to share that. She didn’t want him to feel sorry for her. “It feels a little frivolous considering the circumstances.”
He gave a small laugh. “I’m in the company of a beautiful sorceress. She’s smart. She’s courageous. We’re next to a river that’s”—he eyed it—“scenic in its own way. I’d say that’s the perfect circumstance for a picnic.” He pulled out a blanket and spread it out. He patted the edge of it and she sat next to him.
His moves were efficient as he made sure she could reach the food. Evidently, plates hadn’t made the trip, but she wasn’t complaining. “Is this what life is always like with you?” she asked. “Jumping off trains, bad guys with guns, and charming picnics afterwards, Captain?”
He took a drink of his water and handed it over to her. “I’m not a captain anymore. And I think this is life with you. The excitement never stops.”
She laughed. “It’s only exciting when you’re around. Otherwise it’s just stressful and worrisome.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m here.”
“Yes.” And once again she pondered that kiss that hadn’t happened.
For a long moment, they were silent, focused on the food. She hadn’t eaten since her drive through the Republic. It felt like days. She was almost done with a steak kabob—its spices flooded her mouth—and he was on his third when he spoke. “You know what I wonder?” Mischief played through his voice.
