by Anise Rae
He pulled out the reports and skimmed Bronte’s first. It didn’t reveal much more than the general had already told him. He flipped to the one on Claude.
In the bedroom, her movement pushed at the air around her. He looked up from the report and froze. He had every sense tuned in and picked up the energy of the rustling covers before she stepped out of bed. Her mage vibes would take practice to sense. He wasn’t good enough yet. Her energy signature was almost blank. Almost.
A thump and two clicks sounded from the main room. She appeared in front of the opening to his office with her violin and bow in one hand, the other still fingering a lock of her hair.
It spilled down her shoulders and to the middle of her upper arms, curling under softly. It framed her beauty perfectly. He’d like to see it all spread out on his pillow again.
She flicked the back door’s lock, walked out and shut the door behind her.
So much for keeping her locked in.
He strode to the couch and looked out the window. She sat on the edge of the back porch. Her feet dangled over the edge. She tucked her violin under her chin and pulled the bow along the strings. Notes found their pitch and streamed out with a purity that matched her faint energy. Her melody vibrated around him and everywhere else. The universe’s energy responded and vibrated in concert. Even the energy of the trees and grasses morphed to blend with her song. He closed his eyes and let the vibes she created with her song soak into him. He liked music as much as the next guy, but not classical. This, however, would turn even a rocker’s head.
The landline’s duplicator swished out more papers. He forced himself to shake off the bindings of her song and picked up the latest report. He needed to focus while she was busy.
The handwritten cover page read,
Meant to tell you about this. Your syphon’s distracted me too.
T.W.
Shuffling to the next page, his gut tightened as he read the short report. DW had detonated another bomb, this time in Eaton Territory in a wooded area behind a mage school. It should have been empty on a Saturday afternoon. The blast occurred two and a half hours ago, a hundred yards from the school during an early festival to celebrate the autumnal equinox. The place had been packed with families. No injuries. Another bomb off target.
Vincent sat back in his desk chair and tried again to puzzle this out. The last four DW attacks had missed their mark, after a dozen being right on. Something was wrong in Double-Wide. But what? A traitor in their organization? If that were the case, it shouldn’t have taken four bombs for the terrorists to notice and eliminate the problem. Vincent reread the details and studied the grainy photos.
Just then, mage vibes drifted toward him. Not Bronte. Someone was coming down his road. Three someones. His parents and brother. The cavalry had arrived, ready to plan the attack to secure his syphon’s future.
He locked the reports in the top desk drawer and went to the front porch to meet them. Best to keep his mother outside. If she got in, he’d need a crowbar to remove her. Vincent leaned against the post at the top of his porch steps and stuck his hands in his pockets.
Out here, Bronte’s music resonated crystal clear. Its energy waved through the air. He watched his mother absorb it the moment she stepped from the Land Rover. She took a deep breath, her eyes closing, as if she could inhale the melody.
“Good goddess. Is that her?” She paced to the edge of his house quicker than high heels ought to allow.
“You’re a lucky man, brother.” Edmund sauntered up the steps. “You’ve found a girl who’s like a mythical siren for Mother. You’ll never be alone again. It will always be the three of you.”
His mother leaned around the corner of the house, pulled to Bronte’s tune. “Is she in the back?”
Vincent nodded again.
“I’m telling Dell to cut your grass,” she said. “I’m not tromping through these weeds.”
“Then you can listen from here.”
She gave an exasperated huff but stepped up to his front porch.
The sad beauty of Bronte’s tune shifted and twisted, circling around the same melody again and again. It ventured further away each time, leaving him surprised when the melancholy string of notes returned. His bones vibrated with her sound. His heart moved in time to it. Her song captivated them all—even his father’s face lightened for a moment, though he climbed the steps like every move hurt.
He’d been helping with the victims of the bombing since early this morning. His drawn face looked as if he’d spent his every vibe mending what damage he could. “All this time, the Casteels have held the answer to your sense-sickness.” He looked off into the meadow and squinted against the bright light of the blue sky. “Who would have thought such an incredible gift would come from such an unlikely source?”
Vincent looked the other away. For thirteen years he hadn’t believed what his heart was telling him. He should have known.
“The house of Casteel will never let her go.” His mother shook her head with disgust. “If they knew she was the complement to your power, they’d probably get rid of her just to spite us.”
“Bronte said something similar on the way here.” If Vincent had anything to say about it, they would never see their daughter again.
His mother put her hands on his shoulders. “Vincent, she needs to be able to stand beside you. Not behind. Believe me, I know. The Hawkins name was no blessing when I first came here.”
“But your scrappy, sly heritage has served you well, Mother,” Edmund said.
“As it has served you, Edmund. You’re fifty percent Hawkins after all, even if you grew up here,” their mother said. “But back to Bronte. She cannot continue this façade of being a Non.”
She moved to stand beside her husband. His parents shared a look of secrets, two experienced warriors with a long history of prevailing over powerful foes and ready for another fight. Together they were a force of nature.
“There’s only one alternative.” Mother’s flat voice rendered her verdict.
Vincent nodded, knowing they’d drawn the same conclusion. “She has to come out of hiding.”
“We’ll help. You can’t do it alone,” his mother said.
For a moment they fell silent. Bronte’s music continued to drift around to them, creating an almost physical connection between her and every living entity within hearing.
“I don’t know about this. She’s a bit timid, Vin.” Edmund crossed his arms over his chest.
Vincent frowned. “You’re wrong about that.”
“Well, she uses her propriety like a shield.”
“That’s certainly nothing you would know about,” their mother shot in.
Edmund grinned. “Bronte’s lovely, and there’s enough fire in her to fascinate. But it’d be easy to blow out her flame with just a breath.” He rubbed a single finger over the bridge of his nose. “She not going to come out of hiding willingly.”
“No.” Vincent shook his head. “I’m going to have to drag her out.”
“Well, make sure she still likes you afterward.” His mother waved a finger in the air. “She’s not one of your army mages. You can’t order her around.”
“Masset’s already on her trail.”
“Oh, yes. He’s definitely working on that warrant.” His mother had imported a bevy of Hawkins spies when she’d married a Rallis.
“Either Masset suspects something about her, or he’s prejudiced against every Non out there now. I’m guessing the latter. He’s no aurist mage.” He looked at his father. “I don’t know if he’s the right man to be the chief of the enforcers, Dad. After that first bombing, he changed.”
“Losing a son would change any father,” he replied. “I’ll look into it. But our mages are up in wands over the bombing. It would be almost impossible to replace the leader of the enforcers right now. He’s gained a good bit of support for his strong tactics with Nons because of the Double-Wide attacks.”
“Strong? He tried to kill her
in the gyre.” Vincent ran a hand through his hair. “We have to secure her position with us fast. And the Casteels won’t simply hand her over.”
“Changing history doesn’t happen overnight, Vincent,” Helen reprimanded. “And that’s what needs to be done. The public is scared of syphons.”
“The public is scared of everything these days,” Vincent scoffed.
“There are some powers that should be feared,” Edmund said matter-of-factly. “Though syphons obviously aren’t one of them.”
Vincent wasn’t fooled by Edmund’s casual words. His brother had a power so rare they’d had to research ancient scrolls to determine what it was. Knowing its name hadn’t helped. It was still just as dangerous, just as deadly, and imperative to control. So far, Edmund excelled at concealing the depths of his power. He and Bronte had that in common. But if Edmund’s control ever slipped, the devastation would be unmatched.
Vincent thumped him on the back in consolation.
Edmund shrugged him off. “Bronte’s about to become the spokesperson of scary mage powers. She’ll be good at it, if only because she looks like she could be knocked over with a dandelion puff.”
“If that’s what you think, you’ve been duped.” Vincent would rather forget how she stood up to Masset—not once, but twice.
“The symphony’s a good starting point,” his mother said. “She’ll like it. We’ll keep her with us, insulate her from the curious. We’ll arrive late, let everyone see her in the box with us, and we’ll leave early.”
His father took her into his arms. “Darling, that means we can’t go to the dinner before or the party after.”
She nodded.
“You’re a sweet girl.”
“I am not.”
His mother had worked all year on tonight’s celebration; even Vincent knew that.
“Besides, it’s not a big sacrifice. Not for Vincent.” She patted him on the arm.
His family rallied for a fight in his honor. They’d arrived here without waiting for him to ask for help. And his mother was giving up her big night.
“Thank you.”
“Of course, darling. In the meantime, we convince the Casteels to transfer her sponsorship to us permanently. That’s the first step until we can secure her legal protections as a mage.”
Edmund tilted his head. “After seeing the gyre, it’s obvious the land has welcomed her with open arms. She’s already bonded as one of ours, though not by law. As for getting the Casteels to hand over the legal rights to her, I say we hold the medallion hostage.”
Vincent straightened. “No. Double-Wide will think we’re accepting their gift and giving in to them. If they share that with the public, everything this family stands for will be crushed.”
Edmund shrugged. “Alright, Colonel. Whatever you say. Then we stall for now. Tell the Casteels we can retrieve the medallion in a week or so, and in the meantime we need to keep their daughter as a witness to the safety of the medallion. You know, with Bronte in your life, you could take the Senate seat. You wouldn’t have to worry about the vibes of all those other senators bugging the hell out of your sense.”
“No way. That’s yours.” As firstborn, Vincent was entitled to the position, but his overly powerful mage sense would flare beyond the tolerable at the Rushes. Vincent had never wanted the seat. He wasn’t sure Edmund did either.
He focused the conversation back to tonight’s plan. “We take the sentries with us to the symphony. They’ll guard the door to the box and can tell everyone we’re enjoying the time alone as a family and don’t want to be interrupted.”
His mother pressed a hand to her chest. “Why, how high-handed of us.”
Edmund stepped in closer, shrinking the size of their circle. “The Eatons would back us up right now if they knew what she did for Vincent. All three of their sons struggle to control their mage sense. They hardly leave their house. The Winslowes, too. Their granddaughter just turned fifteen. They’ve moved her to the attic to limit her exposure to others’ vibes. I suspect something similar has happened to the Nobles as well. Their daughter disappeared awhile ago.”
“How do you know the Nobles’ business? They’re no friends of ours.” Vincent frowned. What had his brother been up to?
“It’s that Hawkins blood. He’s a natural spy.” His mother spoke absently, her thoughts somewhere else. “I’ll talk to the Eatons and the Winslowes.”
“I’ll check in with the Bradfords,” his father said. The small territory to the south of Rallis typically followed in their wake with most issues.
“That’s four founding families behind us. We’d only need another three and we’d have enough of a majority in the Senate. The Lockes might be another easy one. She lives in their territory, after all.” Edmund rubbed at the bridge of his nose again.
Vincent shuffled his feet at all this political maneuvering. Give him a battle, a duel, even a bomb. But the political siege rested in the hands of his family. He chafed at his inability.
“In the meantime, we’ll show her off, keep mum about what she is, let everyone get used to her, and see for themselves she’s nothing scary,” his mother said. “We’ll do the big reveal, and they can all be stunned that mages were prejudiced against this misunderstood power for so long. She’ll be a hero.”
“I’d settle for her being my mate.” Vincent listened for a moment to the final notes of her song. It was bittersweet background music for this strategy session. “She’s going to want to run.”
“Well, I’m not losing her,” his mother stated emphatically.
“I’m not losing her, Mother.”
Edmund grinned. “Then it’s a good thing I brought you that rope to tie her up after all.”
“I beg your pardon.” Bronte stood in the weeds at the side of the house. Her hair fluttered in the breeze.
“Hi, Bronte. We stopped by to bring Vincent some necessary supplies.” Edmund grinned.
His mother swatted him on the shoulder. “Bronte! Darling! That was an absolutely lovely song. Just beautiful,” she cried, bravely walking down into the weeds to join his syphon.
Bronte smiled cautiously but took a hesitant step backward as his mother rushed her. “Thank you. I haven’t played that in a long time.”
“Who’s the composer? I don’t recognize it.”
“Me.”
“Oh!” Mother wrapped her arms around Bronte. “Amazing! You should be on stage. Vincent, there’s a garment bag and two suitcases in the car. Get them for me, would you?” She hustled Bronte toward the porch steps as Vincent obeyed her orders. “You are going to enjoy this evening. I brought you a dress and everything you could need to go with it.” She turned back to him. “Oh, honey, don’t drape it over your arm. It’ll wrinkle. Go hang it up.”
“Actually, I’m not—” Bronte began.
His mother interrupted. “We’re leaving at seven o’clock. Feed her before you leave, Vincent. We’ll see you in a bit.” She grabbed one arm each on his father and brother. It was their turn to be hustled. “Don’t come into the house. Drive your truck to the front and hop into the limo.” She walked toward the Land Rover, stopping at the passenger door. “By the way, Bronte, your shirt’s on inside out,” she hollered, pointing delicately with her finger.
Vincent pulled Bronte back inside the safety of his house. He locked the door behind them the moment they were safely inside.
“My shirt’s on inside out?” She looked down. Her mouth gaped in horror.
Vincent hadn’t noticed before and still could hardly tell. But there was a fold at the bottom of the shirt that should have been on the inside.
“Oh good gracious. Your mother thinks we had sex.” Bronte blinked at him, frozen with her violin snug under her arm. She was reeling in the wake his mother frequently left behind her.
Vincent crooked a smile at her with a tipped head. “My mother is a Hawkins by birth.”
“Oh, no.” Bronte’s voice was properly alarmed. Even a Non would know of the Hawkin
s’ reputation.
“She’s smart. She’s good at maneuvering people where she wants them.” A useful skill for safely debuting a syphon into society.
She lifted an eyebrow. “And where exactly does she think she’s maneuvering us?”
“I’m guessing her strategy is sort of like wrongly accusing someone of breaking the rules. If everyone believes you’ve already broken the rules, you might as well go ahead and do so. Not that having sex would be breaking the rules,” he clarified.
Her eyes traced his body. He assisted with her perusal and stood motionless before her, grinning boldly when her eyes made it to his.
Bronte averted her glance in a flash, her cheeks pink. “She is devious.”
8
“This is a huge mistake.” Bronte tried once more to convince him. She’d lost a dozen arguments over the last two hours. “You can’t take a Non into a mage event. They’re going to kick me out.” She stood at the far end of the long table, keeping it between them like a wall. She needed as much distance as possible to focus on this fight. Her opponent was a major distraction. She’d never seen anyone wearing the dress uniform of the mage army. At least not in person.
The all-black suited him. The high, straight collar matched the stark, handsome lines of his face. The medals and ribbons decorating the jacket looked impressive, powerful. She had a foolish urge to run her hands over the breadth of his shoulders.
The whole house smelled like him. The scent of his shower left its aroma everywhere. She couldn’t escape from the temptation short of pinching her nose shut.
He’d taken care of her this afternoon. He’d cooked for her—vegetable lasagna, guaranteed potion-free since he’d made it himself. He’d discovered how to curl her hair with his energy after she’d wished aloud for a curling iron. With everything Lady Rallis had packed in those suitcases, she couldn’t believe there was no curling iron. Her hair now hung in wavy locks down her back and over her arms. The last time she’d worn her hair down in public was the day of that awful audition for the Rallis Symphony. The soft brush of it on her arms felt a bit wild, a bit out of control.
