Syphon's Song

by Anise Rae

  “My general’s damn good at dealing with powerful mages. ’Specially the weird ones. Those who have a duty to step up and protect our country. Mmm hmm. Big on that. He’s protective of his boys. He wants to make sure no one’s gonna break their hearts, lie to them, abandon them, betray them, use them.” She itemized the misdeeds like a bulleted list. “He’s gonna see to it those things don’t happen. He’s gonna find out what the truth is.”

  Lucinda spun around and leaned against the counter, her arms folded under that chest. She squinted at the stall door.

  Bronte quickly jerked her head from the crack and spoke, trying to cover up her spying. “It’s nice to have someone look out for you. Although I’m sure Vincent can handle himself.”

  “Probably. How ’bout you? Are you too weak to take care of yourself?”

  Bronte wasn’t sure if Lucinda was threatening or challenging her. Did Vincent know his boss was suspicious of her? “I’ve taken care of myself for a long time.”

  “Really.” Lucinda’s sarcastic surprise echoed through the bathroom. “I don’t know if you’re very good at it, Bronte. Doesn’t look like you’ve gotten too far in life. If you ever had any potential, it’s already faded away, honey. You’ve never grabbed the bull by the balls, and you never will. You’d rather run away from it.”

  Bronte gasped. “I’m here, aren’t I? That’s not running away.”

  “Oh pish posh. You’re here because Lady Rallis made you. Now, you coming out of that stall, darlin’? Or are you just being polite and not peeing when I’m talking?”

  Since the woman couldn’t see through doors, Bronte indulged herself. She stuck out her tongue and gave a mean scrunch of her nose at her.

  In the mirror, Lucinda lifted an eyebrow.

  Damn these mages.

  Bronte schooled her face and exited the stall. “I needed a moment to find some peace, that’s all.” Stepping toward the mirror next to Lucinda was like a gazelle approaching a water hole when a lion was partaking.

  “Not much of that in here for you. I sent your peace out to the hall. If that’s what you’re looking for, go get him.”

  “I will. It was nice meeting you,” Bronte said as she sidestepped to the door.

  “Ha. Look at those Mayflower manners. Fizz-less. I’ll tell the truth even if you won’t. It was very interesting meeting you, Bronte Casteel. We’ll meet again soon, I’m sure.”

  10

  Grab the bull by the balls. Fizzless? Pish posh.

  Bronte shoved the ladies’ room door open. It banged against the wall.

  Vincent stood a foot away. His dark eyes pinned her before she even opened the door all the way.

  A muttering wave came toward them. Louder and louder. Intermission.

  The first of the concertgoers appeared around the corner, followed by an aristocratic deluge. Vincent’s expression hardened, his jaw tight, determination etched deep in his face.

  She took his hand. She wouldn’t let him face the mob of vibes alone.

  Bronte wanted to face them down simply to prove the rude woman wrong. But she was out of her element among these mages. All she could do was syphon Vincent’s vibes. She could not conquer this crowd. It was too mighty of a bull for her.

  They swam against the current of mages, mostly women, streaming toward the restroom. Though the sentry followed behind them, without the protection of Vincent’s family, Bronte was a minnow among very big, toothy fish that liked to play with their food.

  Vincent’s scowl cleared a small path. Mages stepped aside to avoid not only the power he naturally deflected back at them but also the broad shoulders. Bull was an apt description.

  “Rallis!”

  She heard the man’s voice sounding from behind them. Vincent dipped his head an inch and kept going.

  She looked back to see a bald man in a uniform quite similar to Vincent’s. This had to be Lucinda’s other half. Formidable. That was the word to describe Vincent’s boss. She met his eyes over the crowd and dared to hold his stare for a second. There. He could report back to his wife that she was not fizzless.

  A tune drifted to her ears over the noise of the crowd. She looked away from the general. She recognized the melody. Someone hummed one of Claude’s songs. It was from his current batch of completely horrid compositions. His songs rarely made it out of the South. Who would know it here?

  The tune floated above the din of the crowd. The screechy melody hovered, as distinct as oil floating on the surface of a puddle, unable to mix with the depths of the pool. It should have irritated every ear after the beautiful music this crowd had soaked in.

  She glanced around to see who it was, but found no suspects. The bald man was the only other person who even seemed to notice it. He, too, was looking around the crowd, except his eyes kept traveling back to her. The scowl on his shiny face was a clear indicator that he, like his wife, disapproved of her.

  She turned back to focus on maneuvering through the crowd, and the loud volume of the newly freed audience soon smothered the awful song.

  They zigzagged through the glittering throng, but not fast enough for her taste. She would have run if he had let her lead. She was surrounded by the enemy left and right. Faces became a blurry blend of toothy smiles and penetrating gazes that threatened to undo her. Inquisitive stares lodged in her skin. She squeezed Vincent’s hand until her nails dug into him. Her heart fluttered with fear, but she kept her head high and her face masked in serenity. There was nothing to do but ride this out. Calm confidence her only weapon.

  Bronte ran into Vincent’s back at his abrupt stop. Lady Rallis cut them off twenty feet shy of the door. His mother gave her a smile. Bronte assumed it was supposed to reassure, but it fell quite short of its mark. She recognized the man standing next to Lady Rallis with a zing of shock.

  “Bronte,” Lady Rallis began as she slipped Bronte’s forgotten clutch back into her hands, “I’d like to introduce you, or rather reintroduce you, to Peter Leggert. He abandoned his post to meet you again! And Peter, this is my son, Vincent,” she added offhandedly. “But you really don’t care about him compared to Bronte.”

  “Helen!” The reporter’s sharp tone was unmistakable as she slithered into the conversation. “There’s not a mage soul in the world that wouldn’t vibrate at the chance to meet a Rallis son.”

  “Oh, Chrissy,” Lady Rallis waved the woman’s comment away with an eyeroll the reporter couldn’t see. “This lovely treasure, who my son is lucky enough to have gracing his arm tonight…it’s B. Castle.” Helen whispered the last with glee, as if it was an exciting secret spilling out into the world. “She composed that last song. That amazing song.”

  “It’s a great honor to meet you again.” Peter Leggert’s deep voice boomed through the lobby. “I’ve never stopped regretting that I didn’t have the courage to hire you on the spot. I kept your song. Obviously. You are such a talented musician and composer. I’ve followed your career occasionally through the years. I’m glad you were able to find…a measure of success.”

  The evaluation sounded uncomfortably like Lucinda’s. She’d worked hard to achieve her position among the Chattanooga musicians. But he was right. What she’d accomplished as a Non was nothing compared to a mage’s potential.

  “I wish I’d known you were going to be here. You could have joined us on stage and played the song yourself.”

  Her most fervent wish. She sucked in a hard breath. To stand so close to it—the stage, the audience, the musicians. Her song. Still, that dream was beyond her grasp. Close but not close enough.

  And it never would be. She could never stand before an audience of mages and risk them finding out her secret.

  Oh goddess, it was salt in a wound.

  Peter smiled wistfully. “Maybe you could have played the rest of it, the part you kept with you. I’d love to hear it sometime.”

  “It was quite beautiful.” Chrissy butted her face in between Leggert’s and Helen’s. She held a small notebook and a pen. �
�Can I get a quote from you, Miss Castle? Your thoughts on tonight’s performance?”

  “Later, Chrissy.” Helen squeezed the woman from the conversation. The reporter took the hint, but she lingered close by.

  Peter smiled sadly. “I must get backstage now. I made my musicians nervous when I ran offstage after you. They likely thought I was abandoning them. I’m glad you’re back.” The conductor turned away.

  “We’re leaving.” Vincent’s words were harsh and stern. Not even his mother dared to counter the commanding voice of the colonel. He narrowed his eyes on the door, a target blocked by dozens of mages conversing, socializing, probably ready for a lynching at a moment’s notice.

  “Colonel, if it’s alright, I’ll take point this time,” the sentry said.

  Vincent nodded, said goodnight to his mother, and charged after the sentry. Bronte followed in his wake, one hand in his; the other grasped the beaded bag. A squealing lady cut off their access to the door. She threw herself in front of them like she was a matador’s red cape to a charging bull.

  “How’s the date, you two?” she bubbled vivaciously. It was the pink lady who’d waited for a meeting with the senator this morning. Was it only this morning? The woman still wore pink, brighter and bushier than before.

  “Sir?” the sentry asked.

  Vincent brushed his concern away.

  Pinkie had lost her handler—Frederick, if Bronte remembered correctly—in the mass of mages. Bronte spotted him fighting through people to get to her. Lady Rallis was on her way as well, throwing “excuse me”s back and forth. Her sentry hurried to catch up and looked ready to toss her over his shoulder.

  “Lady Rallis,” the pink lady called out as Helen came into hearing range, “there’s no wife here for Edmund. I know where I need to look. Frederick won’t let me tell you right now where that is, but I know what I’m doing.” Pinkie turned back to Bronte. “Now what kind of mage are you?” Even Nons knew it was rude to ask such a question. “I can’t see a lick of your energy, but there’s something…an absolutely perfect connection between you two. Perfect like a fairy tale!” Her high, nasally voice squawked with animation.

  “Betty!” her handler yelled above the crowd. Betty ignored him. She curled a strand of hair around her finger absently.

  “Whatever you are, we need more of you. Many mages these days can hardly tolerate others. It’s a growing epidemic. A pandemic even. Let me tell you, when mages are too powerful to tolerate other mages’ power, it’s an economic hardship for us matchmakers. Now, they’re nothing like him.” Betty shook a finger at Vincent. “He’s a bit extreme. But my goodness, so are you!” She giggled.

  Frederick made it to the compeer’s side. Finally.

  “Oh, Freddy!” She sobered a touch at the man’s scowl. “Frederick,” she corrected. “Look who it is! These two are leaving early. Wonder why!” She gave a wink. And then another. “Enjoy!”

  Vincent nodded at the sentry. The man took his cue, pushed past Betty, and opened the door for them. The cold air wrapped around Bronte’s legs as she walked out. She looked back as the door glided shut behind them and drowned away the deep murmur of the crowd. From inside, Betty waved to her, unaware that Chrissy stalked closer. Frederick saw the reporter coming and pulled his pink puffball away. Bronte lost them in the crowd.

  The only life outside was the chauffeurs who kept warm in their cars. Gerald, Vincent’s man, did the same in his truck. He made a U-turn in the middle of the street and pulled up right in front. Vincent helped Bronte in, the leather warm from the heated seat. Gerald exited the driver’s seat and, along with the sentry, headed over to the Rallis limo with a nod to Vincent.

  The cityscape faded as her stoic colonel drove them back. The land morphed into pitch-black countryside. Slowly, the safe solitude of the truck lent her a touch of calm. Fear unwound its tight grip. She leaned her head against the soft leather of the seat.

  The image of the violinist and cellist onstage burned in her mind. The musicians had played her song beautifully. Melodic perfection. Sitting in the Rallises’ box, she’d recognized the song immediately. If Lady Rallis hadn’t been surprised as well, Bronte would have thought the woman planned this.

  She thought back to the scene of her audition in front of Peter Leggert, a hard memory to relive. He had liked her, had listened intently. Her playing distracted him from her lack of personal mage vibes. He’d been ready to hire her. But she’d dropped her purse and her Non papers had fallen out.

  The whole idea of auditioning had been foolish. If he’d hired her, she could never have hidden her power, or lack of it. She’d been doomed from the start. This Non-mage disguise…it had been itching for a long while, she realized. Somewhere inside her, she’d chafed to strip it off. Daring to audition had been a symptom of her malaise.

  She turned her head toward Vincent as she leaned against the seat. “Peter Leggert put my song in the program because it’s one of his favorites.” She gave a soft laugh. “Can you believe that? When I look at it like that, it’s hard to stay angry. Tonight was worth the risk.” Her words waved through the comforting quiet that existed between them.

  It had been worth facing down Masset and the encounter with Lucinda in the bathroom. Bronte had grabbed hold of that bull, regardless of what the other woman thought. “To hear my song like that…” She would have done almost anything.

  Vincent studied her before looking back at the road. “It was the most beautiful song of the night. But he should have asked for your permission. He knew where you lived if he was tracking your career. And you should have been on that stage playing it.”

  “But, Vincent, that’s never going to happen. This is as good as it gets for me. This is me grabbing the good.”

  He lifted his eyebrow, questioning her reasoning, but he stayed silent, letting her work through this on her own, as if she would draw the correct conclusion if she’d think hard enough.

  He pulled through the gates of the estate. Her syphon absorbed the hitch in his energy as he pushed at them. The stars in the sky twinkled as if they, too, sensed him. The darkness hid all but a few details on his face—the glint in his eye, his stern, proud nose and the sharp cut of his jaw. The lights on the dash were too dim to see much more. Even in the dark, he exuded intensity, power.

  She was already accustomed to it.

  A dangerous thing.

  It was almost time for her to leave.

  She turned toward the window and craned her neck to view the stars until the trees surrounded them. They passed the woods that held the gyre. Memories of their almost-kiss bubbled inside her.

  The last twenty-four hours had been a crazy, scary adventure. She’d accomplished her task for her mother, heard the mage music she’d longed for her entire life, and encountered the perfection of Vincent’s vibes again.

  The truck’s clock read 9:49. A little over fourteen hours before she had to cross the Rallis Territory boundary. This would be her only night with him, the man whose power sang to her syphon. She would never have this again. This night, with its music, and with Vincent, needed to last her a lifetime.

  She smiled as Vincent drove through his meadow.

  * * * *

  Bronte led the way into his house, slowly feeling her way in the dark, though she’d already memorized the simple layout. The lanterns above the table brightened to a soft glow as Vincent stepped in behind her.

  “Thank you. For tonight.” The words floated up through her, heartfelt and sincere. “I never would have had to courage to do that without you, much less had the opportunity to go. I am grateful I got to hear my song.”

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “It’s only the start.”

  “No, Vincent. It’s the end. Almost.”

  “We’ll get your pass extended again. Edmund is working on it. Your parents can’t say no.” He placed her palm against his cheek. The short roughness of his whiskers rubbed against her hand.

  “You’re wrong. My parents can always
say no. When it comes to me, they always do. But let’s not talk about them.”

  “So long as you know this isn’t the end.” He bent down to her, nose to nose.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “No.” He was emphatic.

  She was too. “We have a deal. Now be quiet. Because this isn’t going to be a soft peck. This one counts.” She was grabbing the bull by the…horns. She had fizz and it coursed through her in magical places. Standing on her tiptoes, she clasped his face and pulled him in to meet her. Every tense knot in her body let go. She pressed her lips softly against him, waiting for him to respond. Bronte made a soft hum in the back of her throat, surprised she’d managed to catch him off guard. The warrior had yet to react to her assault.

  Slowly, his arm crept around her waist as if he were unsure she would stay. In the next second, he closed off any option of her leaving and pulled her into him. His body was hard beneath his uniform. He opened his mouth and took over the kiss, tasting her, teasing her, letting her do the same to him.

  A new tension glided through her, as demanding as her former fear. Her body tightened in places that hadn’t responded in a long time. Heat moved along her skin and she dropped her shawl to the floor. She stepped her feet between his, bringing her hips into him. The new contact made her want to crawl up his body.

  He surrounded her, his scent, his vibes, his strength. She reveled in it, drew it in to her as if it alone could sustain her. Tilting her head, she cooperated with delight as his lips moved from her mouth, to her cheek, to that spot under her ear.

  She wanted to run her hands over his skin, but that handsome uniform stood in the way. Her hands felt along the front, searching for a seam, but it was smooth, no line of separation for the jacket to come apart. He helped her.

  A stream of energy flowed from his finger, unlatching the fibers that had woven together to hold the jacket shut. She couldn’t have taken it off him herself.

  Her syphon power pushed into overdrive and boiled over with Vincent’s energy. It was hard to breathe around it. But more than air, she wanted him. The jacket slid from his arms to the floor. Now only his white t-shirt blocked her touch. She reached for its hem, but he stopped her.